A Rise From Ashes
by RachyBaby09
Summary: The Girys hide the Phantom after the tragedy of Don Juan. Erik stumbles upon an abandoned infant girl. Meg longs to soothe his scars & show him light can be found…but Erik's inner demons have plans of their own. Dark, sexy Gerik! A very sensual EM phic.
1. Ashes to Ashes

_a/n: PLEASE READ!: Thanks for your interest! Here I present an angst-filled, tender E/M Giry phic…with a touch of E/C (naturally). Much of it is VERY dark, but there's also a good amount of comedy scattered throughout._

_And this phic does get progressively steamer (namely by chapter 7). This is the steamiest story I've written. It's a__ll 2004 film based. I humbly advise you read at least tlil chapter 3; the plot picks up starting next chapter. This is more of a prologue. Thank you again! Don't forget to leave a quick review! xox._

* * *

_Chapter I: __Ashes to Ashes_

What a divine revelation it was! An Opera Ghost who bleeds is far from dangerous!

The Phantom of the Opera's infamous legacy had come to a close. The mob, gendarmes…they were all coming for him, ready for anything…torches and staffs in hand. They were bloodthirsty and hungry, veins overflowing with boiling vengeance. It was a glorious relief. His identity had been unmasked; it was a murderer, madman, and cynical monster which had terrorized them for so many decades. Countless decades! The Opera Ghost had perished within the flames. Now, there was only _Erik_.

And, it was Erik's inner demons which had set the kingdom ablaze, sacrificing so many souls to his wrath. One can only be burned so many times…before the darkness finally claims you.

Erik had been unmasked. The Phantom of the Opera was an illusion—a cleverly fashioned illusion which had been crafted by the hands of a madman. Erik…Erik was a man of flesh and blood…prey to all. There were no more ghosts, no more phantoms. Only Erik existed—and, God in Heaven, they wanted him to pay the dearest of costs. How foolish they had been! What Opera Ghost pines for the affection of a lovely soprano, demands such a hefty salary, and watches performances from his own private box?

The Phantom of the Opera would burn.

Since his first breath of life, Erik had known only hatred and loathing. The human race had disowned, shunned and condemned him. Their eyes feared what their hearts could not understand. Erik's inescapable and immortal sin had robbed him of humanity and any hope for companionship and love. His deformity had always been his immortal curse; Erik's birthmark and deathmark. It was the face of a demon which, in the end, had denied him the love of an angel. Christine Daae had loved and adored the Angel of Music with a beautiful, unearthly affection. It was _Erik_ who Christine Daae had denied and betrayed.

Erik's home was burning to the ground. Each clever wonder, every sly trapdoor and artistic masterpiece, were doomed to his personal Hell. They would be burnt to ashes…alongside the Phantom's infamous legacy. It was his wildfire of unbridled passion…his lewd obsession and denied humanity…which had sent the Opera House to Hell.

* * *

Piercing screams of terror echoed the Opera House's crumbling walls and Erik's mind in a flawless harmony. Erik had grown immune to horrified cries and screams; the screams of those whom had met eyes with his curse. Yet, these screams…these screams were unlike anything he had ever heard before. These were cries of loss and hopeless despair; they spoke to the most intimate and tortured crevices of his soul. Erik was no stranger to despair or loss; his smoldering kingdom stood as proof. And, with each invaluable, fleeting moment, it became quite clearer and clearer: the Opera House would not stand much longer. Like everything else in Erik's life, the delicate walls would crumble within a landside of possessed emotion…suffocating his damned existence to the crimson depths of hell. At last, Erik's artistic domain would have surrendered to his unholy desires and demands. Yes. Erik's fate would be certain of this.

Erik needed to make choices, decisions—and quickly. If not, they would surely be made for him.

Die at the hands of those who loathed, hated and hunted him? Die at his own miserable hands? Flee and attempt a new beginning…a rebirth of his failed legacy? Or live…dwelling within the shadow of haunting memories, fallen angels and scorned love? Erik had endless choices, one to settle on, and only moments to decide his fate. Fate…

Erik was tired. He was tired of running. He had run from his mother; a woman who had shunned the little devil which she had dared given life…the Devil's Child. He had escaped the abuse and rape of Javert—his vile gypsy master. Erik had found sanctuary within the Opera House's musky Bowels, escaping the world's cruelty and hatred.

Dancers and stagehands had often spoken of the ghostly weeping…the weeping of a child, which echoed deep down below…

And the Phantom of the Opera had been born.

Within the darkest of shadows, Erik hid. He hid from the hating world and the human race; he had hid from himself. Down below…within the haunted catacombs and far beyond the still lake…Erik hid. Erik thrived as a ghost, dying as a man.

It was the heartless rejection, the ultimate denial, of the one person who he intimately cared for, which had burdened Erik with his most painful scars. Scars which would never heal. His angel, the face of his voice…Christine Daae had broken Erik's heart.

Erik fled his withering crime scene and its ashes. They were twisted ashes, built from all shapes and forms: deceased bodies, an Opera House destined to mere rubbish, and the debris of an unforgiving past. As Erik observed the disaster which laid before him, he acknowledged how—quite literally—he had committed a crime of passion. It was a disaster beyond his imagination.

And now…Erik's scorned and thwarted romance would be unmasked, deliciously shouted from every Parisian' rooftop, tabloid, and witness. _Why must the human race be so malicious…so heartless?_ Until Christine Daae, Erik had never wanted any part of humanity; and, in the end, it was Christine Daae's betrayal which had confirmed the human race's heartlessness.

There existed only one person who Erik still embodied respect for. A woman who had shared in his misfortune. Madame Antoinette Giry had cared for Erik—for better or for worse. Erik prayed she would still have it within her heart to protect and shelter him from the world.

Could Antoinette Giry save him a second time?

Erik did not believe in God, and his prayers had never been answered.

Until now.

* * *

Thick tears rolled down Madame Giry's cheeks. Erik could not help but wonder—_were these tears shed Erik, Christine Daae, or Opera Populaire? _He assumed the latter.

The helpless and defeated woman sulked within a corner, blanketed by a shawl of darkness. Erik gently approached her, composed and graceful, moving like a true ghost.

Through a delicate whisper, "Antoinette."

She turned, her traumatized gaze meeting the horror of Erik's tragic and unmasked face. "Erik? My God. Come with me—you are destined for death, should you stay here a moment longer."

She pulled at Erik's trembling hand with a firm tenderness, leading him from the dying Opera…the only home which Erik had ever known.

Within moments, an elegant sea of gold flowed beside Antoinette and Erik . Meg Giry's lovely hair. Erik betrayed himself and inhaled the sweet, delicious scent of the dancing curls. She truly was a dancer—and in every which way. Her feminine scent intoxicated Erik, and his senses soared indefinitely. _Nectar and lilacs,_ he imagined.

Erik thought to himself with an inward chuckle—_of course Meg is here._ Her mother would have been certain of it. First, it had been Erik…then her darling, little Marguerite…finally…Christine Daae. Antoinette had made mothering quite habitual.

* * *

Antoinette pounded frantically at the chipped door. It was a painfully small, humble home, clearly belonging to those of the lower class.

Two kind and wrinkled faces answered the loud knock almost at once: an elderly lady and gentleman. The couple's somber expressions and quick invite told Erik this man and wife were intimate friends of the Giry's. Erik, Antoinette, and Meg entered, the door slamming behind.

Even under the extraordinary circumstances, Erik found himself instinctively sheltering his deformity from his new acquaintances' penetrating gazes.

A delicate hand barely rested atop his tight shoulder, squeezing gently.

Erik jumped at the soft, deft touch, startled. Meg stared up at him, her chocolate eyes large and lovely, porcelain cheeks stained with tears. Erik was childishly shy when it came to pretty girls. He had kissed only once over his forty years of life…Christine Daae. But her kiss had been for Raoul. It had won their freedom. Her kiss was a death sentence; it had sucked Erik's spirit from the depths of his wretched body—leaving behind a bitter and soulless corpse in its ashes.

Meg…Meg Giry was an adorable and elegant young lady, squished into a single, sweet form. Like all men, with age, Erik began to notice the attractive females whom had infested Opera Populaire. For nearly any young man, the Opera Populaire would have been the closest thing to Heaven! Erik was always surrounded by women of the highest pedigree. Dancers, actresses, and singers…

The young chorus girl had put them all to shame. Within his smitten eyes, Christine Daae was nothing short of heavenly perfection. She was a true, breathing angel.

Ever since Christine's first lovely sigh, it had become inevitable; Erik had eyes only for her. Only Christine Daae, always Christine Daae. Yet, for the first time, Erik caught himself acknowledging Meg's undeniable charm and beauty. Yes…even to the pickiest man's standards, she was very, very beautiful…but far from his beloved Christine. Of course.

Meg grasped onto Erik's trembling hand, her touch gentle and tremulous; she met his broken, emerald gaze, sharing in his tragedy. Meg sniffled, placing Erik's porcelain mask within his grip.

She smiled a compassionate smile, caressing his shaking hand with a tentative and careful touch. Meg was well aware of Erik's troubles. Throughout most of her life, her kind heart had gradually developed a compassion for the ghostly man.

Meg Giry sank to the crutch of her knees, hid in the creamy flesh of her palms, and wept for him.

Erik subtly nodded his appreciation, lifelessly sinking into the Giry's moth eaten chair.

Now…they could only wait…wait and pray for a plan which could save poor, unhappy Erik.


	2. A Bundle of Hope

_Chapter II: __A Bundle of Hope_

Erik, Meg, Antoinette, and her sweet, elderly parents huddled about the crackling fireplace, not daring to break the profound silence which had steadily consumed the entire flat. Indeed, a plague of deadly silence had devoured the home in a cloud of black despair.

And it had been several days of dark silence and tragic suspense.

Erik stared thoughtfully into the blazing heath, lost to the flames devious and wavering glow. _Flames. _He felt the heat wrapping his aching soul, burning his heart to mere ashes.

Erik anxiously fidgeted with his white mask, raking a hand through his hairline in repetitive and graceful strokes. The golden flames danced across the chaste, porcelain canvas in an elegant and seductive tango. He adjusted the mask from his inflamed flesh, easing the perspiration which wallowed and pooled beneath.

Erik's disheveled thoughts trailed mercilessly—as they too often did. He thought of how his porcelain half had betrayed him terribly; amidst the most vulnerable moment of Erik's life, it had failed to hide and shelter him from cruelty.

There are many things—_endless things_—which a mask cannot hide. Love was the first that came to Erik's mind.

Erik turned from the heated blaze with a deep and tormented groan; the tragic sound had erupted from the most twisted, desperate depths of his soul.

He observed Antoinette's parents and their breathtaking, intimate closeness. They caressed each other's old, wrinkled hands with pure adoration and astonishing affection. They gazed deeply into each other's eyes with an undying passion. The world around them seemed to vanish and fall away completely, as they lost themselves within the comfort and familiarity of each other. Erik felt his lips curve into a bitter and crooked smile; he hadn't thought true beauty had still existed.

Then it dawned on Erik: forever, he would be alone. He did not want to be.

He yearned for so much more than the touch of a pretty face or the intimacy of a lover; he longed for a life partner…a soul mate. Without Christine, he felt incomplete.

_From my first breath I was alone, and shall remain alone until my last. It has been proven…my destiny is to live within shadow_.

Erik wanted someone to love.

Meg stood with a yawn, elegantly stretching her long arms and legs like the royal felines of Persia. Meg's was a dancer's body—a true work of art; Erik turned away, caught entirely off guard, surprising himself with such indecent thoughts. But her casual movements were so effortless and graceful; they were the movements of a poised prima ballerina. She seemed to always be performing, always _en pointe_, always graceful and perched atop her little toes.

Meg Giry was born to dance.

Erik observed Meg's sleepy stretches and recalled how he had often watched her from his Box 5. She had always been a delicate, sensual creature and a pleasure to watch. But now there was no Opera Populaire—there was no place for Meg to perform her art. Erik groaned inwardly, hating himself with a deepened passion.

Meg yawned once more, wished her family and Erik goodnight, retiring to one of the two bedrooms.

Erik and Antoinette were left alone, victim to their painfully awkward company. Antoinette's eyes narrowed intently on Erik's restlessness and uneven breathing. She feared for his health. He had come to be quite pale and had not eaten anything for many, many days.

"Erik, why not try to find some rest? _Oui?_"

Erik grunted and waved his hand in a nonchalant, annoyed gesture.

Rest was no longer something he sought. There was no rest for him; there were only nightmares. "Come now, Erik."

"No…"

His voice was so weak and broken…beautiful but spiritless.

She knew he was dying of love.

Antoinette patted Erik's ice-cold hand with an affectionate and tender squeeze. She forced a small, sad smile, poorly masking her distress and concern. With a heavy heart, she turned away and left Erik to his brutal thoughts.

* * *

Erik could just make out the beautiful, heavenly figure within the winter night. Scarlet lips clashed against a snowy complexion, chocolate curls lost to the darkness.

An Angel! His Angel. Christine…his Christine Daae.

She stood amongst the sea of weeping angels and monumental crosses. A glow radiated around her; it was haunting. She resembled a lost and lonely spirit, wandering amongst the dead. Most of the graves had been overtaken by weeds, long time forgotten by their loved ones.

But Christine had not forgotten. In death…she had waited for him.

She ran to Erik with open arms and a wide smile, embracing him to the melodic beat of her chest. She was so sweet, so warm…so alive. A sweet sigh of relief fled her cherry lips. Christine closely—protectively—held Erik within the shelter of her arms. He nearly fell faint at her breathtaking touch.

Erik and the cruel world were even; he called a truce.

In his ear, she whispered, ever so softly, "I'm here, no one will find you…your fears are far behind you…share with me, Erik…one life…one lifetime…love me, and let me love you…"

Christine affectionately wiped a descending tear from his eye; she pressed a kiss to his cheek, reviving him. "Do not weep on my behalf, my love."

Erik stepped back, allowing himself to drink Christine's beauty within its entirety. He swallowed his bunched and burning throat, as his heart beat thumped mercilessly. "God, so beautiful…"

The purest of angels. Those thick curls elegantly framed her small body. Her skin was so soft and pale…her lips a deep and devilish, deceitful blood-red. It was all too much. Too much! A dream? There was no way of knowing.

No longer could he control his burning desire; its flames were consuming him alive—it had been far too long. Painfully long.

She was strikingly beautiful and finally his. Erik wrapped his arms around Christine's delicate waist, pressing her as near to his body as he could. He ached for them to be one. He longed to make Christine a part of him forever. They were impossibly close…two separate beings, yet one complete soul.

He vowed to never let her go. Never would she leave his arms, his touch, his heart. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, and she giggled through a shy and knowing smile.

Her soft lips grazed Erik's neck, kissing a wet trail up, up, up…up to his mouth—which had fallen agape in his disbelief. She nudged his jaw closed, beaming. "I have never forgotten my Angel of Music."

Finally affection. Mutual desire, passion. Love. Pleasure.

What he was once had been denied, he now claimed as his own. Erik sighed a peaceful sigh, contentment flooding his lungs._ Christine's love…the only love I've yet to know…nor long for. Now until forever._

Her love was a beautiful thing. "Oh, Christine. I am not worthy of you."

Christine hushed him affectionately with her tiny finger. "Do not speak, my love. Just feel."

Smiling, Christine tickled Erik's neck with a playful, curious touch; her fingertips ran through his hair with fearless affection and a new intimacy. She teased him, enjoying his youthful response to her temptation.

Tempt no more. Their bridge had been crossed, watch it burn. No more going back, no more hopeless nights, no more empty arms, or empty heart.

Christine stood upon her tip-toes, in an attempt to reach the height of his ear. She brought her warm mouth close to it, seductively cooing, "Let me have you…_all of you…_my Erik…"

His aching heart skipped a beat and she paused, burying within his eyes. _"_Make me yours…forevermore. _Take me."_

Christine unclasped his mask's wire. Slowly, she peeled it from his face…

Both hands covered her quivering mouth, muffling the destined screams—his mask fell to their feet.

Christine grew drowsy and queasy at the terrible sight before her. She spiraled gracefully to the snowy ground—fainting into Raoul's outstretched arms. Raoul pressed his ear to Christine's still and lifeless chest.

"Monster! Look at what you have done! You have murdered my beautiful Christine! Thing of Hell! Monster!"

Erik woke from his nightmare, broken out in a thick film of sweat. Frantically, he ran a trembling hand over the sleek mask—scanned his surroundings—no Christine, no Raoul, and no snow.

Erik needed to get out. Fresh air. He had to free himself. He who had lived without light, now felt the light closing in on him. Erik needed his dark world.

* * *

Much to his surprise, Erik began to feel slightly refreshed after several steps. The cold, crisp, winter helped clear Erik's overwhelming thoughts and tangled emotions. Even at this late hour, he was sure to wander only the darkest and emptiest of alleyways. After all, no one would appreciate stumbling upon an alley monster…Erik imagined.

Christine Daae's angelic voice and beauty haunted his mind and soul. He had loved her far more than himself; Christine had given Erik his first rays of hope and love. A first stream of light within his inescapable darkness and solitude.

His heart painfully pounded and ached. In a single evening, Erik had destroyed everything which had ever been dear to him.

And, then…

He tripped. Erik rubbed his burning and stinging palms. They were seething blood. What…could have had possibly tripped him?

Erik turned and met eyes with a tiny, still body. An infant! A pool of blood surrounded the child in a crimson ring. It was dreadfully cold and she…she was naked, barely moving, barely living. Was she alive?

Erik could see her spirit slowly fleeting and ascending. Whom had possibly abandoned such a helpless infant, leaving her alone in the world—left for Death? Dark alleyways, such as these, Erik knew, were no stranger to the most perverse and demented of crimes.

He thought of the cruel mother…then thought of his own. Had she given birth, within this dark abyss and damning seclusion, not wishing for such a burden?

Had she brought her daughter into the world, only to deny her life?

Quite possibly. Or…just maybe, the mother had been the true victim—savagely murdered at the hands of a scornful lover. Erik cringed. He knew not exactly what had brought about this little ones cruel fate—but he knew it had been a repulsive crime.

Erik prayed that the foul demon, whom ever was at fault for the infant's suffering, died after her birth.

Erik stripped himself of his cape, carefully and snugly wrapping the tiny youngster. He massaged her ice-cold body with gentle caresses. Clutching her tightly to the warmth and beat of his chest, Erik returned to the Giry's flat—the dying child snuggled within the shield of his arms.

He madly pounded at the door; only half awake, Meg answered. She met Erik's intense gaze…then, the newborn's blue, staring eyes.

"Oh, God, Erik!" Meg tugged at his arm, now wide awake, quickly leading Erik and the still bundle into the home. Saying nothing, Meg raced to her mother, silently bringing her to Erik and his strange finding.

"Oh, Erik! Where…where did you ever manage to find her?"

"In an alleyway…drowning within a pool of blood. Left for Death."

Antoinette paused and shuddered, chest raking with constricted breaths. She looked the powerful man up and down, unsure of what he had become.

"You swear to me, Erik…what you have said is the extent of it?" Her tone was sharp and accusatory. Erik's face transformed at her words. She was the one person who Erik believed held faith in him as a man. Antoinette had broken Erik's heart. For the first time in days, he had shown emotion. It shattered Antoinette's soul.

Head bent forward, Erik muttered, "On my word."

"Forgive me, Erik."

And Antoinette's motherly instinct took over; she fetched the baby girl from Erik's arms and tended to her. She and Meg cleaned, fed, and warmed her. And, after a few critical moments, the baby sweetly cooed her appreciation.

Erik smiled to himself. She would live.

Antoinette handed the baby back to Erik, forcing a weak smile. He cradled her, bewildered, completely unsure of how he was supposed to handle the creature. Meg could not help but smile secretly; she blushed at Erik's innocence.

Meg spoke in an insanely sweet tone, "Are we to find her mother…or at least try?"

Antoinette sighed, chest rattling.

"No, I believe not, Marguerite…it seems, she has been forgotten…" She gazed at Erik, eyes brimming with tears. "…and now, found."

"What am I to do with the girl?" Erik growled, half annoyed and entirely frustrated.

Antoinette gently stroked the baby's soft head. "Care for her, Erik."

Losing all patience, Erik spat, "No, never! That is OUT OF the question—YOU KNOW THIS, as well as I! Barely, if at all, can I care for myself, let alone this—this pitiful thing! Nor have I the slightest of interest…I OWE THE WORLD NOTHING."

Antoinette and Meg were certain that the thunderous voice had frightened the baby to her death. Oddly, she began to only move more lively…resurrected. Erik's voice seemed to sooth her with its dark beauty.

Antoinette released an exhausted sigh. "I will help with whatever you shall need…and I am sure my daughter would as well. We shall do this together, as we always have, Erik. In a strange sort of way, we are family. Is this not true?"

Meg giggled and playfully tickled the little one. "Oh, indeed, Maman…I would do all I must to save the life of an innocent child. Would anyone else do any differently?"

"No. I REFUSE. And you know damn well it would not be not right…nor natural! The pitiful creature would certainly die at my hands!" Erik continued, his voice cold, void of all humanity and emotion, "This world—it is cruel, selfish…unfair…no compassion, no remorse…and now, I am as well!"

Antoinette studied her daughter's face; Meg's eyes glistened, heavy with sympathy. Sympathy for Erik. It was a cruel world which Erik had grown to know. The only world. Erik seemed to take delight in his vengeful cruelty…and yet…Meg knew his soul was pure and good.

With great sadness, he delicately rocked the gurgling youngster, all of his movements guided by instinct. "I could never learn to care for another…care for her in the ways she would demand…" Erik's thoughts fell astray. "Never could I attend to her needs. I am good for no one."

Antoinette softly caressed Erik's shoulder, easing his tension. "Perhaps, the Lord has placed this helpless soul into your hands to give you comfort. Perhaps…this is what you have always been searching for…someone who may come to love you for yourself, Erik. Nothing less. Will you not give her a chance? Will you not give _yourself_ a chance?"

Erik and the child stared into each other's eyes in a perfect, harmonious silence.

He knew her sapphire gaze could not make out much more than a blur—yet, Erik swore he saw pleading within their depths.

She was alive…and Erik could feel her will to live as if it was a tangible thing. She, Erik's tiny bundle of hope, would be his from this night forward.


	3. Children of the Wilderness

_Chapter III: Children of the Wilderness_

Losing all remaining patience, Erik's eyes sharply narrowed as he stared down the intimidating square-shaped cloth which lay menacingly before him.

Snarling, emphasizing each and every syllable, "I…STILL…can…not…get…it!"

Unable to swallow back her laughter, a melody of giggles burst from Meg's grin. Erik shot her a deadly stare—not the least bit amused. If looks could kill! To Erik's dismay, his threatening glare did not unsettle Meg—no, instead, her cheeks seemed to madly redden four scarlet shades. Then four more.

Erik, this genius intellect, could design a Parisian opera house and all its clever wonders, a mirrored-torture chamber which could drive a man to suicide, burn a maiden with his passionate caress, and compose the music of Heaven with his masterful hands.

Yet, he could not fold Christine's diaper for the life of him.

Little Christine peered up at the dumbfounded man, eagerly studying him with her beaming, sapphire eyes. She titled her face and began to gurgle, as if she found Erik's diaper-challenge to be quite comical. Erik shot piercing glares at the two amused young ladies, teeth gritted, bellowing like some wounded beast.

Antoinette groaned, annoyed by her daughter's immaturity. "Oh, Marguerite Giry! Please! You are supposed to be helping! To shame, Meg Elizabeth Giry, to shame!"

Meg wilted. "I…apologize, Erik."

Antoinette took Erik's confused hands within her own, patiently guiding him through the terrible process, step-by-step. Christine's diaper was folded and secured around her bottom within moments. Erik sighed in divine relief. For the first time in weeks, he felt the slightest tinge of peace.

Antoinette undid the folding…placing the soft material back into his hands.

"It was finally on. The wretched thing was on!" The poor man was fuming. Surely, this would be his death.

"Please, Erik. You must. This is something you will need to learn to do yourself. For yourself…for your Little Christine."

Erik knew this was only one of many challenges which he would soon be forced to master. With a deep, aggravated sigh, Erik attempted the impossible.

"Brava, monsieur!" Erik nearly fell out of his chair when he felt Meg's enthusiastic embrace strangling his neck; he was not used to receiving any form of affection or praise. Nor did he care for it. He shrugged Meg off of him and smoothed down his fine dress clothes with a grumble.

Over the past few days, Meg seemed to warm up to Erik _considerably_; and this discomforted him _immensely._

No matter how much Erik tried, he could no longer lie to himself; although it had been only days since him and Little Christine were brought together, he was already feeling, somewhat, like a father.

Erik forced himself to keep busy after finding Christine. His _other_ Christine constantly tormented and plagued his mind. He missed her voice. He was so lonely and soulless, more ghost than man, far more dead than alive. Christine's singing had served soothed his inner demons; its sweet, lullaby tone helped complete the empty void of his soul. She had given him purpose and a reason for waking. And within his dreams…she had always been there. Now, each night, she haunted his nightmares.

Erik dedicated almost all of his time and energy to various projects for Little Christine. Using the wood of an old oak tree, Erik had hand carved a beautiful crib by hand. He sanded it, smoothing away all of the wood's tiny imperfections. He carefully carved roses, 'Little Angel,' and a skull into the refurbished oak. It was a true work of art.

Erik knitted wool outfits to keep the youngster warm and designed toys of all kinds.

Yet, despite Erik's undeniable dedication to the young child…he remained cold and distant. Beautiful woman or cooing baby…Erik feared the simplest of touch. He had distanced himself from the hating human race his entire life—humbling himself only to Christine Daae. He allowed himself to become vulnerable, defenseless and completely at his Angel's mercy. Erik had trusted her, desired her and loved her. He had sacrificed his entire existence for Christine—only to be rejected, humiliated and betrayed. In the end, she had proved humanity's heartlessness.

And Erik wanted no part of humanity.

* * *

The novel's words viciously jumped out at him.

_'I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create.'_

Christine's terrible cries echoed the small home, distracting Erik from his novel. With an annoyed groan, Erik slipped a black ribbon into chapter six and set Frankenstein onto the nearby sitting-table. He impatiently waited for the cries to cease; Antoinette and Meg had made it their job…settling Christine's fits and tantrums. Perhaps, it was the innate 'mother' within… perhaps, they had no choice in the matter.

Five minutes passed…then ten. The cries had not come to an end! No, they seemed to grow louder and much more severe.

Half asleep, Antoinette joined Erik in the drawing room. She collapsed into an adjacent chair. Her eyes fell shut as she struggled to catch her breath. Erik would have sworn that she was dead…had he not known any better. It was tragic; Antoinette had seemed to never age, always graceful and lovely, her youth preserved by a lifetime of ballet. Now, she appeared far older than her rightful forty years.

"Oh, Erik. My daughter and I have tried everything. Everything. Her cries—they simply refuse to stop!"

"Yes. Her bawling had told me that…" Erik immediately regretted the harsh words. It was because of him that Meg and Antoinette were homeless and endangered by the law—the Giry's were housing a fugitive. He deeply appreciated their sincerity…but dared not show it.

"We have reached our wit's end…perhaps, Christine cries for you…not my daughter and not myself."

"Nonsense."

Patting her damp forehead with a handkerchief, "Maybe so. Meg and I are walking corpses, at the very best…I am sorry, Erik. You will need to see what you can do for Little Christine." Antoinette stood with a painful groan, wobbly on her feet. "We are going to retire for the evening… bonne chance, papa…" _(French translation: Good luck, daddy…)_

* * *

Erik glared down at the fussy child. The pretty blue of her eyes intimidated and unnerved him. Erik lifted Christine from her crib, nestling her to the warmth of his chest. He mimicked all the motions which he had seen Meg and Antoinette repeatedly use…rocking, bouncing, and swaying; they all failed miserably.

Tenderly, he pressed Christine into his manly form. "Hush, little one."

As ugly and grotesque as his cursed face was…Erik's body and attractive 'side' were equally stunning. His body was powerful…out of this world and unlike any other man's. He had survived unimaginable torture: mob's beatings, the rape and abuse of Javert, whip lashes…and so forth. But no pain had compared to Christine's rejection.

It was truly a magnificent thing. The tiny infant pressed against Erik was a magical sight to behold.

Erik cursed aloud when Little Christine wailed a blood-curdling scream into his eardrum. This…creature…would be his death. He found himself growing far more restless than the wailing babe.

Erik's thoughts trailed to another Christine…and an epiphany crashed down like a crystal chandelier. Could it be? Just maybe…

Erik soothed her using the power of his beautiful, hypnotic voice…

_"Child of the wilderness,_

_Born into emptiness._

_Learn to find your way in darkness,_

_My child of the wilderness._

_Who will be there for you._

_Comfort and care for you._

_Learn to be your one companion._

_Never dreamed out in the world,_

_There are arms wanting to hold you,_

_Love and console you._

_You've always known your heart was on its own._

_You've always lived your days alone._

_So laugh in your loneliness,_

_My child of the wilderness._

_Learn how to love life that is lived alone…_

_Life can be lived… life can be loved alone."_

Concealed in shadow, Meg madly wiped away her waterfall of tears. Her soul ached for Erik. She trembled. She longed to embrace him and comfort him…she longed to tell him he no longer had to live in loneliness.

Meg could finally understand Christine's intimate, rather powerful attraction, to the mysterious masked man. For countless years, he had ruled as Christine Daae's masked master.

His voice was disturbingly beautiful.

It was unlike anything she had ever heard before. It was tantalizing, enticing…even arousing. Wonderful shivers caressed her stiffened spine, as Meg was consumed by the ecstasy of Erik's singing. It took only one song: Meg found herself developing a forbidden—an intensely intimate—attraction to the Phantom. Though, she vowed she would deny it—even to herself…until her dying breath…

Ignorant of Meg's presence, Erik set the snoozing baby into the crib and returned to the drawing room. He paced to the sitting-table, collecting Frankenstein from its ancient surface.

Something caught his eye. Yes, he had seen the newspaper before, but had not dared open it. He feared the horrors which lay within the articles.

'_DESPERATE MANHUNT FOR THE OPERA MADMAN CONTINUES.'_

Erik grabbed the paper with a choked breath, sacrificing it to the fireplace's flames. He watched in silence, as the parchment shriveled into no more than black ashes. And within the solitary comfort of his company, for the first time…tears shamelessly rained from his eyes.

* * *

The following day, a knock woke the Giry house shortly after sunrise. Meg answered with a bear yawn and glazed eyes.

"Oh, Meg! Something told me you would be here!"

Erik's body violently plunged from beneath his bedsheets as he woke with a strangled gasp. Another nightmare. But her voice…it had seemed so, so real…

"Raoul and I were sick with worry!"

No, for the first time…Erik had not dreamt.

Christine Daae was there.


	4. Erik, the Eternal Ruler

_Chapter IV: Erik, the Eternal Ruler_

Christine Daae patiently waited beneath the Giry's snug doorway, arms folded, comforting herself from the winter's brutal sting. Meg stood there staring, quite dumbly, as Christine waited to be invited inside. This was certainly not the welcoming which she had anticipated.

"Meg? Is everything quite all right?"

The uninvited guest narrowed her eyes quizzically, studying Meg's strange and silent behavior. Where was Madame Giry? Where were Meg's grandparents?

Christine stretched her elegant swan neck, curiously peering around the wooden door and into the familiar drawing room. Could the Giry's be hiding something…hiding someone? Meg shut the door just enough to prevent Christine's prying eyes…taking great care to not appear overly rude. Or suspicious.

Meg _felt_ his presence.

Meg spun her head around, golden curls elegantly flowing in Erik's direction. They cascaded just past the small of her back in a divine flurry of lush ringlets. For a fleeting moment, Erik allowed himself to admire her undeniable elegance. Yes. She was beautiful.

His angel stood behind that door.

Erik had not moved for minutes. He was numb…he could not move. That voice which he had grown to love paralyzed and devoured him. Meg tilted her heart-shaped face, tossing Erik a compassionate and soothing glance. Her oversized auburn eyes glowed beautifully…almost apologetically. He basked within their warm glow. Meg's compassion helped to ease Erik's anxiety.

Barely nodding, he vanished from the drawing room like a ghost. With only half a heart, he joined the _peaceful _Christine. The evening-shades were still tightly drawn, the bedchamber pleasantly dim and silent. The little one lay perfectly still, perfectly content, suckling at her tiny thumb and gazing up. Erik thoughtfully looked down at the sleeping angel. He caught himself smiling. She would be very beautiful. There was no doubt of it.

* * *

After what seemed years, Meg 'welcomed' Christine into the Giry's humble flat. She came to Christine's assistance, fumbling over herself, peeling away her scarlet cloak with trembling fingers. She gestured her friend to sit, her movements painfully clumsy—far from poised or graceful. Christine obliged, forcing a weak smile, clearly rattled and taken aback. Meg immediately took on the role of hostess, as Antoinette had taught her, fashioning together two cups of tea. Christine blankly observed the stumbling, awkward Meg with utter confusion and concern.

"Meg…may I assist you in any way?"

"Oh, no need!" With a pretty twirl of her skirts, Meg joined Christine in the drawing room, clutching the pair of shaking teacups. They chattered in her hands like tin cymbals, threatening to spill. No, they _were_ going to spill; there was no doubt of that. Christine took one from Meg's hand with a dumb expression, softly blowing at the steaming liquid. Had Meg forgotten? Christine never had cared much for tea. Regardless, she politely sipped.

"Thank you."

"Of course. I have missed you. Maman and I have been beyond worried for you, Christine. Have you been well?"

"I—Raoul and I have been doing quite well…" She continued weakly, as she nervously over-stirred her teacup. "…Oh, Meg, the De Chagnys are all so kind, much like dear Raoul…they have been allowing me stay at their estate." Meg smiled sadly, eyes swollen with emotion. She knew Christine Daae had been orphaned since the fire.

"That is wonderful. I am so glad to hear…" Meg stroked Christine's arm with sincere affection. "Oh, Christine! You haven't any idea how relieved I am to hear of your good news. Each night I have been praying for you! We all have." Christine finally smiled.

Far too aware of Erik's unseen, voyeuristic and ghostly presence, Meg continued beneath her breath. "You and Raoul are still to be married?"

But Erik heard everything. He pushed himself into the wall and gritted his teeth, heart weighed down with dangerous, murderous jealousy.

"Oh, yes, certainly. Quite soon…" Christine finally stopped stirring the tea. Her little body visibly hardened. "I cannot help but wonder…if the Phantom survived." Meg peered at the doorway, where she knew the 'Phantom' lurked. He would be praying for Christine's acceptance and love.

"Oh, listen to me! 'Phantom!' I should know better than anyone that he was far from a phantom…or an opera ghost…and besides, phantoms could never be brought to death…nor hunted…" Christine's feeble words trailed, making little to no sense. Even a blind man could see that Erik was still in her thoughts…deep within her heart.

"Erik."

"Pardon?"

"The Phantom—he is a man and he has a name. His name is Erik."

Christine set her teacup down on the sitting-table, paralyzed, consumed by the music of _his _name. Christine recited and chanted the powerful name like a sacred prayer…

_Erik…Erik…Erik…Erik…_

She liked the way his name felt on her lips.

Erik's heart raced. If he did not calm himself…Christine would certainly hear the insufferable drumming! It was doomed to burst from his very chest!

Hearing Christine mutter Erik—not Phantom…or even Angel—was far more than the smitten man could handle. He fell in love with Christine Daae all over again. He ached and longed for her. Never had Erik been in so much pain; surely, it would destroy them both…

Christine smiled inwardly, softly chucking. "Eternal ruler."

"Pardon?"

"Erik—his name…it is Scandinavian, and it means eternal ruler." Christine never ceased to surprise her; she was both impressed and bewildered by such random knowledge.

It suddenly dawned on Christine. Her elegant eyebrows perched and her forehead crinkled in horrified alarm. Her sweet tone drew cold, hateful and downright bitter. "How—how do you possibly know of his name, Meg? You know him, do you not?" Meg stared, perplexed. Christine was always so gentle. Who was this tormented woman before her? What, exactly, had transpired between the Phantom and Christine?

Meg could have sworn a tinge of jealousy empowered her words. Christine was behaving like a fool in love! Meg would do anything to ward off Christine's jealously. Jealousy is brutal…deadly! It is unforgiving. Jealousy burns, destroys…murders.

"Maman…_she_ has cared for Erik. She took him in, many years ago. When he had nowhere else…no one else, Christine. Please, you shan't be angry."

Meg and Antoinette had always agreed to keep Erik's housing a secret. It would only lead to further questions…his discovery…and Christine's resentment. Madame Giry had been fully aware of the Phantom's interest in the young chorus girl. At first, she was beyond grateful; Christine was in desperate need of guidance and a father figure. But the orphaned soprano gradually blossomed into a breathtaking young lady, and Erik's affection had vastly matured to new and dangerous heights. He no longer longed for her faith. Erik ached for her love.

Antoinette had known it was too late. Erik could not be saved from himself. What she feared most had happened.

"I—I do not believe it. I will not believe such a thing!" Christine sat lifelessly, staring forward and seeing nothing.

Meg, her dearest friend, knew _all along?_ And never had told her? Meg let Christine believe she was being haunted by an angel…a phantom? A musical Angel, who had been sent to guide and guard her…from heaven…by her dead papa? Why must everyone deceive Little Lotte?

"Yes, ma chérie." The kind and familiar voice penetrated Christine's pacing thoughts.

"Madame Giry!" Christine stood, swinging Antoinette into her tight embrace. She forgave Madame Giry's secret; it was Meg who had betrayed her. After all, girlfriends should not let each other believe a ghost is singing songs in their head.

"So it is true? What Meg tells me about the Phantom—Erik—it is really true?"

Her voice was feeble and broken. Meg could not help but study her alluring friend. She admired her gentle beauty…dark curls fanned over her porcelain complexion…devilish, blood-red lips elegantly contrasted against the snow-white of her skin. Even the pattern of her breathing was graceful. Erik was right; she resembled an angel.

Antoinette exhaled a heavy sigh, seating herself. Tugging at Christine's dangling hand, she pulled her into an adjacent chair. Antoinette grasped Christine's shaking hands and locked her hazy eyes with stern affection. "Yes. Raoul knows this as well. I apologize, Christine. We both apologize for such secrecy. Do not be vexed, my dear. Our intentions were pure."

"I see…Raoul failed to tell me of this…" Christine remembered his voice—Erik's voice. The voice of her angel! Its beautiful, flawless music echoed her mind, drawing her back beneath his wing…under his power and embrace. Christine brushed _Erik'__s _voice from her thoughts. He was a stranger. Erik had murdered many, and nearly strangled dear Raoul!

"Madame…you say you took Erik in…under your care?" She nodded; Christine continued, "I shall assume you kept in contact with him…at least somewhat? Delivering his infamous notes, and such?" She weakly nodded, fearing where Christine's questions would lead. When should one stop deceiving?

"Then—you possibly would know…Erik…is he safe…alive? The mob…they did not hurt him…did they?" Meg could not help but note Christine's delicate choice of words. She was a child…ignorant to the world's cruelty.

Then Don Juan Triumphant haunted Meg's mind…Christine's brutal unmasking…Erik's execution…which had been planned by her loving Raoul…

Don Juan was the Phantom's declaration of his love and Christine's heartless betrayal.

Meg did not appreciate such cruel torment; she had seen Erik's suffering. Meg had come to know the man behind the mask. Gradually, she had become quite fond and protective of both Erik and his Little Christine. Meg longed to kiss away all of Erik's scars. She longed to rid him of this endless suffering.

"Why would it matter, Christine? The fire, the mob…all of it would not have happened, if not for…" Madame Giry's perched an eyebrow, smothering the last of Meg's words.

Christine's pretty face fell forward in utter shame, chocolate curls blanketing her satin skin. Meg could not help but pain for Christine's loss.

She had loved Erik.

"I—I do not know. Forgive me! I never meant for any of this to happen. I did care for him and still do!… I always have. I…I miss him terribly. Terribly!" A single tear ran down Christine's smooth cheek, disappearing within the crevice of parted lips. "Erik is still my Angel."

Erik stole a glance of his Christine. Very few of her words had registered into his thoughts; Erik was far too lightheaded. Erik cupped his heart as he watched Christine weep. Her pure beauty consumed him. Her sadness pulled at his brittle heartstrings. He withdrew his glare, helpless, unable to stomach the tragic sight. He could no longer sing away her tears or seduce her into dreams of beauty. He was no longer her Angel of Music.

Little Christine had been silent since Erik's lullaby. It concerned Meg and her mother greatly—and they read each others worried expressions. Why hadn't she cried? Even worse, what would possibly happen when she did cry out? Perhaps, Erik's madness would wake and startle her. Such a thing could not be risked; Meg stood, politely excusing herself from the drawing room, explaining she wished to dress for the day.

* * *

The rhythm of light footsteps caressed Erik's perked ears. Christine? Golden curls burned his eyes. Meg. His face gave away his disappointment; he had hoped for Christine. Granted, his and Christine's meeting would be considerably dangerous—Erik yearned for her…Erik needed her. She had become a part of him. Without her, he was empty and dying.

Erik's stern expression discomforted Meg. But behind this unfeeling glare, she knew lay only heartache. His sorrowful eyes whispered his every secret. They gave away the Ghost's love story. Eyes truly are windows to the soul…and Meg Giry found Erik's soul to be a mirrored torture-chamber.

The two curious creatures held unbreakable and silent eye contact for several moments. It was as if they were searching the depths of their souls. Erik broke their intense glare, his gaze descending…penetrating the length of Meg. She followed the distinct trail of his eyes and gasped aloud. Meg tightened her nightdresses' satin sash and shyly made haste for the crib.

Meg was used to waking around girls. Only girls—never, ever a man! Not thinking twice, she had slept in a wickedly sheer night shift. Her cheeks madly reddened at the thought of being exposed to Erik. Bashfully, she wondered if he found her attractive…desirable. She was certain he had eyes only for his angel.

Meg swallowed. Erik's body heat scorched her. It burned her alive! To ashes! She shifted, struggling to hide her vastly building arousal. Erik brought his mouth brutally close to Meg's ear. His warm breath tickled her neck in swirls, as he spoke in a low and sultry tone. He made certain his words were not too loud, not too soft…only for Meg to hear. The cold, porcelain of his mask rubbed against Meg's flushed cheek.

"Meg…Christine…she…cries for me?" Her eyes fluttered closed; Erik's voice was deep, divine and rich. Its seductive melody ran through Meg's weakening frame, surrendering to his ecstasy. When she did not answer, "Marguerite…?" It was a tragedy. His voice was hopeful.

Meg's head dipped backwards, as her eyes jolted open, meeting Erik's stare. He was so vulnerable and so desperate. Erik searched her pretty face for an answer…perhaps a hint of Christine's mutual affection. Erik felt rather immature, childish…playing the 'did she mention me, does she like me' game. But surely Christine's best friend was bond to know her most intimate secrets.

"She worries for you."

Subtly, he nodded.

Erik still could taste Christine's soft mouth and tender kisses. He ran a finger over his smooth lips, exploring the flesh which Christine had dared to touch. In pure awe and suspense, Meg watched him gingerly fondle his parted mouth. Poor Erik. Could he accept another's affection?

Meg perched and balanced on her tip-toes, like the ballerina she was, pressing a long kiss against Erik's cheek. His flesh was stiff and damp; the salty flavor of his tears did not bother her. The Phantom's rough skin was colder than ice against Meg's mouth. She felt the sting of an unshaven chin grinding against her. Erik stiffened impossibly more, regaining his full height—and not an inch less. He drew back from Meg with a disbelieving stare, struggling to breathe through his choked pants.

Erik savored the lingering sensation of Meg Girys' velvet, warm lips…imagining Christine Daae. Meg watched in pure fascination as Erik stroked his own cheek—fondling where her lips had been only a moment ago. He had been kissed. Again.

Erik's legs weakened. Steadying himself, he planted a heavy hand onto the crib…forgetting it rocked. The peaceful baby was jolted awake. It was all happening so fast—far too fast! Meg's unexpected kiss, Little Christine's piercing cries and Christine Daae's blank expression.

Antoinette frantically pulled at Christine's stiff shoulder. What was…this? They both questioned their finding.

Complete silence—a deadly silence. Meg…just stood there! Her body was pressed intimately into Erik's…a slender arm encircling Erik's broad hips and waist. God in heaven! Meg had not realized the extent of her advance.

Erik's breathing heightened, his heart racing like never before. He adjusted his askew mask, feeling the porcelain melting to his flesh. He followed Christine's gaze…which lead to Meg's suggestive hand.

He was furious at Meg! He would have gladly strangled the girl…had Madame Giry not been standing six feet away. He loathed Meg with passion. She had caused so much trouble—so much drama. Damn human race!

Erik mercilessly shoved Meg from his waist; she tumbled to the floor with a soft cry. Meg peered up between her lush fan of lashes, entranced by such a spectacle. Erik and Christine's eyes were swollen with intense, vulnerable, passionate emotion. Christine walked backwards in disbelief. Unblinking, her complexion whitened at least three shades. Her powerful gaze never left her angel…her Erik.

Faintly, he sang out her name in a silky and delicious melody, "Christine…Christine…come, come to me…" Christine rested a hand over her heaving chest. Her breasts sank and rose with strained breaths. She felt queasy—surely, she was bound to faint.

Would Erik catch her? Christine's eyes swelled with luke-warm tears. Little Christine's fit miraculously settled at the music of her father's voice. The Angel of Music captivated everyone.

Christine echoed his plea, meeting his passion. "My angel…angel…my…Erik…"

Meg's trembling hands clutched onto the crib for bodily support as she came to her feet.

She heard Erik's heavy panting and felt his hot breathing sear her skin. The Phantom and Christine's chemistry was so…powerful. Intimate and unearthly. Indescribable and seductive! They were completely at each other's mercy. Drawn to each other…equally infatuated…equally devoured.

Christine narrowed her dark eyes, tossing Meg a look which was far beyond _disappointment. _Hate? Was that…hate? She took a last glance at her Angel of Music, savoring him. Appreciating him.

She had to leave! Once again, Christine would succumb to his darkness and their powerful desires. Raoul. She needed her loving fiancée…she needed her light. She needed the Vicomte De Chagny.

Not daring to look back, Christine fled the Giry household and its demons. Her skirts danced gracefully behind her, carried by the wind's breath.

Erik and Meg chased after her without hesitation. Madame Giry firmly grabbed hold of her daughter. Their intense gazes locked.

"No, Meg, no! We must stay."


	5. Help me say Goodbye

_a/n: To clear up any confusion—this is a Meg/Erik story. No matter the pairing, my phics always will have EC romance._

_

* * *

_

_Chapter V: Help me say Goodbye_

Erik ran after his angel, mighty cape flowing behind him like a pair of colossal wings. He would not give up. He could not give up his Christine.

He could not lose Christine Daae!

Christine…Christine…

Without Christine, there was no point to life. Life? His was a rather pitiful excuse for a life.

Erik might have been withdrawn from humanity, living a life which knew no kindness, no love, or compassion. He was stranger to being loved; it was foreign, forbidden to him. Erik could not begin to imagine how beautiful it must feel…to be wrapped in a lover's embrace…appreciated and comforted. Wonderful…he was certain. The love of an angel…his beautiful angel.

Erik sneered with a dangerous, unnatural hatred and jealously; on the evening of Il Muto, Christine and Raoul had embraced as lovers.

But Erik _did_ understand passion and desire; it was the closest he had come to experiencing _true_ love and intimacy. Mutual love. Erik and his music had an intimate affair. And he knew Christine desired him…Christine's dark desires came alive though her singing. Little Lotte had flourished within his hands. During 'Don Juan Triumphant,' their musical affair was unveiled, _unmasked._ Yes. Erik heard the unfathomable passion which had consumed her beautiful voice…as he'd felt it claim her tense body.

The Phantom and Christine's legacy had not yet ended.

Christine was forced to slow her pace; she felt sick, faint, her legs threatening to give out. She wished for everlasting slumber; within dreams, she and her Angel were one…heartbeat to heartbeat, soul to soul, cheek to cheek…

A weak whimper rose from her throat as she saw the shadow of a man quickly gaining on her. No, she did not fear Erik; she knew he could never, ever harm her. Her Angel of Music, her Erik, loved her…far more than himself. He would take his own life, before touching a hair on her head!

No, it was the raw emotions which wallowed between them that frightened Christine. They were terrifying! They were almost palpable, waiting to be molded into…something. Something dark, something forbidden and unholy. The Phantom of the Opera haunted her. He always would. But now, she would have to face Erik—the man. She had known only the Phantom, her angel, the beloved O.G.

Erik was a stranger.

He towered over her, breathing hard, at loss of words. It was a powerful silence. A painfully loud silence. Erik's thoughts fell astray as he remembered his beautiful dream; he often dreamt of her beauty. It haunted him. She was a cruel reminder Erik of what he always had been, and always would be, denied. He ached to touch her. Could something this pure, so flawless and delicate, be real? It was intoxicating…she was intoxicating…it beckoned him. Unable to restrain himself, Erik reached out to Christine, delicately outlining her jawline with the faintest of touches. His rough skin was deathly cold. The few times he had dared to touch Christine, he had worn gloves; the Phantom always wore gloves.

Christine recalled the Phantom's firm, rough and dominating caress; it had never left her flesh. But, _Erik did not _wear gloves…and his touch was gentle…shy and unsure. She enjoyed the feel of his cold fingertips grazing over her, ghosting tentative touches. She swallowed, overtaken with guilt. Christine could not lie to herself; she relished Erik's touch. And she felt wretched—Raoul's caress was sweet, kind and protective…not like this. Christine had never been touched so…intimately…lovingly.

How she longed to grasp Erik's nervous hand, press it to her cheek, accepting him! How she ached to give him permission, confidence…free him of his murderous doubts and fears. She burned to free Erik of his demons.

Instead, she flinched from his touch and backed away. He withdrew his hand completely, taking her brutal hint to heart. Christine De Chagny…she had to remind herself—this was simply a fantasy; a fantasy designed for her, by the Phantom of the Opera. A dark, forbidden fantasy—one you do not dare admit…even to yourself.

"Christine…oh, Christine." His voice was beautifully sad. The silky melody of her name caressed Christine; he recited it with an unbelievable passion. It felt as though his voice were his hands—and they were running over her body…exploring her every curve.

He stepped towards her; she stepped back.

"Christine…you are frightened." Erik's voiced cracked like a young boy's. Again, Erik reached out to her beauty, yearning to soothe her—ease her terror. "…you fear me, Christine."

She shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat was dry, voice choked-up and lost. Her amber curls blanketed over her milky frame, drawing Erik's eyes to the crook of her neck. It was welcoming.

"It kills me…knowing you fear me…knowing you dread me." His voice was feeble, reflecting his broken heart. "Please, Christine…_not you…not you…_"

Christine still could not bring herself to speak. But she _had_ to let Erik know he did _not_ frighten her. They could not part on these tragic terms; not after eleven years of loving each other. If she could not tell him, she would have to show him…

He gasped and jumped at her unexpected touch…then relaxed against her tiny hand. Christine's delicate fingers ran over his cool mask, stroking its porcelain. It was a cruel tease, indeed; finally, Christine was returning his affection, and Erik could not feel it! Wretched mask…so uncomfortable…so dehumanizing. He knew too well: Christine might have loved _Erik_, had it not been for this mask…

Erik boldly clasped her tiny hand within his, guiding it across the surface of the unfeeling mask…freeing it upon his flesh. Erik exhaled a relieved sigh as she stroked him—instead of withdrawing, as he had expected she would. She smiled as contentment flooded Erik's face. Eyes closed and breaths peaceful, he dipped into her touch, a sense of completeness claiming him. It was a familiar sensation…always found within the magic of Christine's gentle hands.

"Oh, Christine—I have missed you…so much…your voice…you…"

"Oh, Erik…you truly are beautiful…" Within Christine's eyes, his sensitivity and tenderness overshadowed his fatal curse. But he was so absorbed…so lost within her delicate touch and the beauty of her affection.

Erik madly wrestled his conflicting senses in vain…she had muttered something…hadn't she? Something…about being beautiful? Yes, she was…so, so beautiful…

Her nails grazed over his cheek…tickled his broad jaw line…stopped on his lips. Erik covered her hand with his, pressing it to his lips for a light kiss.

"Oh…Erik…" She cupped his chin within the small palm of her hand. "I am sorry…for everything…forgive me, my Erik."

He swallowed, closing his eyes, appreciating her. "No." Pushing a stray curl from her lovely face, "Do not be."

A tear escaped her eye; Erik sweetly wiped it away.

"The ring…our ring…you shall keep it for me…keep it for us…won't you, my Erik?"

He nodded, and then cleared his throat—forcing himself to speak. "Yes. Yes, of course."

She smiled, peering up at her angel. "Thank you." Her 'thank you' had spoken far beyond the obvious; Christine expressed her appreciation for Erik. He had saved her.

Erik curiously slid a hand beneath his mysterious cloak, revealing an elegant gold necklace. He stepped behind her, sweeping Christine's soft curls from her neck. She felt Erik secure the thin chain around her…

Christine fondled the cool gold, discovering a breathtaking locket. She attempted to open it…reveal what ever magical wonder it hid; Erik forced her hand away.

"No. Not now."

Erik's aching hands slid from her beauty. He took one last glance at Christine, burying within her eyes, savoring her. It was too much; Erik turned away, returning to his loneliness. His darkness was waiting for him…calling to him.

"No, Erik. Wait." Firmly, but so tenderly, Christine grabbed hold of his shoulder. Her hand rose to his face—up to his mask. She unclasped it, pulling it from his cursed flesh, exposing the Phantom! He shuddered, covering his ugliness with humiliation and kindled hatred. Again! Why…how could she do this? How could she? This was far worse than 'Don Juan!' Betrayal, such cruel, heartless betrayal! What sadistic torment was this? In his most vulnerable moments, Christine Daae dared to…

Christine forced Erik's hand from his mangled half, replacing it with her own. And, a moment later…warm lips pressed against it. She stroked him with one hand, clutching his disguise in the other. She carefully explored the Phantom…all his imperfections…the craters…hibernating flesh…missing eyebrow.

It could not be denied: Erik's deformity certainly had earned its hibernation. It was terribly ugly…demented and unholy. Beyond all repair. A yellowish discharge of corrupt human skin dressed his face. No nostril; only a dark path into the mouth of hell. His age was given away, for his hair refused to grow on such an infertile turf. His disfigured half could have passed for a demon's face quite nicely. Poor, beautiful Erik!

His 'human' half was a cruel tease. It was exceptionally handsome, taunting what could have been. What kind of unjust God rules humanity?

Christine bravely kissed him—all of him; the sour flavor did not bother her…nor the salty cheeks, which were dressed in his tears. She dropped his mask to the snowy ground, embracing Erik within the shield of caring arms. He stood weakly, returning her kisses and hugs with a silent sigh of relief. His trembling hands shyly found their way through her velvet hair…delicately encircling her fragile waist and slender curves. A beautiful piece of heaven…within his arms.

Christine did not leave an inch of Erik's face untouched. Finally, she had found the man…the man behind the false monster. She marveled how incredibly timid Erik was; Christine was here, lost within his loving arms, their mutual adoration…and he was so frightened to touch her! She kissed a moist trail to his tear-stained mouth, joining their lips. It was a passionate kiss; a lover's kiss. Her smooth tongue forced his lips apart, demanding swift entrance, finding way into her Phantom's mouth—only for a moment. Erik obliged, soul singing the music of heaven. Christine could not give Erik her love…but she could give him fearless affection. Christine Daae could allow Erik a sliver of human affection. She felt his heart banging madly against her own. His embrace was so weak…but so loving. Never had Christine felt more loved.

She sighed against his lips, as he gathered the strength to return her kiss. Her lips were soft, tender and beautiful. He had dreamt of this…kissing her, unmasked…holding her to the beat of his chest.

Erik and Christine stood as one entwined form, hugging dearly, tears mingling, completely absorbed within each other's heartache and their shared loss. Erik had experienced true compassion, true affection, and true love; with a tender heart, he could finally free his beautiful angel. Couldn't he?—

She pulled from his embrace and arms; a strangled sob erupted from Erik's throat as he clung onto Christine.

"N-N-No! Please…no…do not leave me, not again…not now…not here, where I cannot find you! Please…oh, Christine…"

He could not say goodbye. No! He could not!

"I will not survive without you, Christine…not without my soul! Christine…please, do not—"

Christine smiled a last smile, eyes overflowing with compassion and heartache. "I love you, Erik. I shall always love you…my Angel of Music. Forever and a day."

Christine turned away, unable to stomach Erik's tears and devastation. His trembling hands slid from the warmth of her embrace, moaning a cry which encompassed all the sadness of the world.

_Forever and a day. _

Erik shivered. Cold. Erik felt so…cold. Christine's declaration of her love had been brutally honest…which made their separation all the more tragic.

It was the end of the Ghost's love story.

She was gone. No…this was no dream. For the first time, Erik wished he had _slept_. Erik had lost his Christine, his Angel. Forever. Again, he was alone and abandoned. Once, Erik had wallowed in his despair; now, he found himself drowning in it.

He was entirely consumed by her kisses—they had claimed him. Christine had placed the familiar mask in his hand without his knowing. He masked himself, and with a shallow sigh, Erik made way for the Giry home. To his other Christine. She would be waiting.

_"Wishing I could hear your voice again,__ knowing that I never would._

_Dreaming of you, _

_Won't help me to do, __all that you dreamed I could._

_Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed, _

_Somehow, you would be here. __Help me say goodbye."_


	6. Meg & the Devil's Child

_Chapter VI: Meg & the Devil's Child_

"Christine…_I love you_…"

Erik was confessing his love to no one. He was alone.

The words escaped his lips in a frivolous pursuit, refusing to surrender. But Christine had finally let go. She was gone from his life. Forever. Erik's inner demons took a wonderful delight in mocking his misery.

_Christine…she belongs to Raoul…Raoul's love promises her light, life…you offer her darkness and death! You offer her the crimson depths of hell! _

Raoul's love was pure, innocent…youthful. Erik's was tainted, dark… self-righteous. But what Christine's love offered Erik was so much more. It was beautiful. She was the light within his unending dark world. Her voice led him away from hell's gates and into the glory of heaven. Christine's kiss made Erik burn to be a man. For her, he would happily abandon hell and its every comfort. Only for Christine!

Erik walked dully, his heavy boots dragging lifelessly through the thick, pearly snow. It was the walk of a dead man.

What hell would he be returning to? The Giry's and a baby awaited him…his baby, his Christine? Erik paralyzed. An odd sensation consumed him. He dreaded returning to the place which he had begun to call 'home.' It was so foreign and so unwelcoming. Its light blinded him—he loathed it. Unfamiliar, so unfamiliar. No he could not go back—he refused to condemn himself. The Phantom could not return to _that_ hell. Would he not be doing Little Christine a favor? After all, she would have been the Devil's child.

But Erik continued down the path which lead to the Giry home…unsure of the reason. Where was he? It looked…familiar. Erik had been completely absorbed in Christine; he hadn't realized just how far they had run.

The sight was pathetic. Opera Populaire still stood…pitifully…weakly. The building's charcoaled, scarce frame was ready to give way. Inside would be the mutilated remains of what was once an Opera House. Inside would be the ashes of doomed souls and forgotten masterpieces. Inside would be the debris of his musical throne. Like Erik, Opera Populaire's exterior was revolting, beyond threatening…yet, beneath the corrupt shell lay pure genius and unblemished beauty.

The tortured building was threatening to collapse. So be it.

It was tempting. It was painfully tempting. The deceased Opera House resembled hell quite wonderfully. Its deathly appeal was Erik's home. The only home he had known; the only home he could bring himself to return. Without the slightest hesitation, Erik descended to his underworld. His Opera…his cherished domain. Hell would burn over, taking Erik with him.

Erik sneered as his eyes met his thrashed kingdom. The mob purposefully, sadistically, destroyed everything which was dear to him. They loathed the Opera Ghost—the evil demon who had harassed them far too long. They knew of his love for music…and had shredded his compositions to nothingness…as if shredding his very soul. The mob had claimed their much anticipated vengeance. What bitter sweet revenge.

Erik's heart sank to a new low; he and his abused organ reunited. _It was severely destroyed—but still playable…_Erik thought to himself in bitter victory.

* * *

Fighting back tears, "Oh, Mamam…where is he?"

It had been several days and no sign of Erik. Had he taken Christine Daae by force? Had he taken himself? Had he sacrificed both of their souls in the name of love? Had he finally been arrested? Had the half-faced madman been caught? Would justice be served? Where was their poor, unhappy Erik?

"Christine…she will not settle, Maman! Not for anything! Little Christine's tears simply refuse to stop! Erik—please, Mamam…we must try to find him. What if he is in terrible danger? He needs us, Maman! I just know this! I can feel it!"

"Marguerite…there is nothing we can do! I am so sorry, ma chérie. I hate this as much as yourself."

Meg Giry sniffled and stormed from the drawing room.

She thoughtfully ran her slender fingers over the crib's smooth oak, stroking Erik's genius. She traced the perfectly carved letters 'Little Angel' with her tiny fingertips. Since Erik's disappearance, everyone was on edge and painfully close to tears. Especially Little Christine.

Antoinette's heart nearly stopped as she read the latest news-line:

'_Masked Madman Caught at Last!'_

* * *

_Through Erik's eyes…  
_

_Trapped. Trapped and bound. Trapped in a cage, bounded by chains. I look through the cold bars, meeting a sea of horrified eyes. Laughs and screams torment my mind…why do they cry out? What have I done? My face! Has someone unmasked me? I try to check for my mask but cannot reach. My hands are cuffed, my arms spread wide. My forehead seethes, wounded and cut open. My head is lolled. Drops of blood trickle down my cheeks like scarlet tears. I resemble the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. _

_And the terror-driven cries reassure me I am without my mask. It is the Devil's Child who they have come to see. I avert my curse from their cruel gazes, humiliated and near to crying. _

"Aww! _I paid good money! Show us your face, demon!"_

_They begin to chant that I should gloat my ugliness. I am frightened. _

_With all my strength, I fight to break free from my cage…this torture-chamber. But I am too weak…unable to sever the restraints which bind me. _

_A sinister voice calls to me. The voice of Satan. "Hah! Where you tryin' to get to?" He laughs, savoring my misery. "You ain't going nowhere! Nowhere! Give em' their show!" _

_He spits on my mangled cheek and laughs some more. _

_I cannot stir a limb. I am drugged. _

_The man grabs my hair, twisting my head up and back…forcing me to turn towards my eager audience. They marvel at my ugliness. Children cry. Women fan themselves. Men clap, applauding the glory of the Devil. I vainly pull from his grip. Javert—didn't I kill you? _

"_Fine, you vile beast! Shows over, anyhow, folks—pay up before my boss gets me! Or else ill let the devil here get to ya'!" _

_His malicious laughing drowns out my thoughts. _

_Again, he viciously yanks at my hair, tugging up and back. "Bid your fans adieu!"_

_Where am I? _

* * *

Meg lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. She had begged her mother to do something. Something which could free Erik. Meg knew he was suffering terribly. Antoinette assured she had already done everything in her power…and anything further would be risking all of their necks. After all, the Girys were endangered by the law.

Meg continued to toss and turn. Her heart ached for Erik. She hated Christine! It was Christine De Chagny who must have turned him in!

Without further thought, Meg rose, quickly wrapping herself in a dress and cloak. This was not over.

* * *

The sky was oily, black and slick as ink. Shivering, Meg finally arrived at the 'Phantom's infamous jail.' It was not too difficult; the Devil's jail cell had become a public attraction within the last days.

Meg froze outside the threatening, locked gates, feeling hopeless. Her little hands gripped at the bars; they chattered against her flesh in a vicious requiem. The wind moaned, rusty gates reverberating within the black and ominous night.

Hopelessness. Meg's hands slowly slipped from the bars, destined tears pricking her eyes. Just when she was about to turn away—

"Ah! Perfect timing! I was in need of a good whore." The foul guard opened the gate for his delicious guest. He reeked of beer and had the stomach to prove his love of the drink. Meg's first instinct was to run. But…something in her gut reassured her. Erik would not let this man harm her. She would trust her intuition.

"Shall you escort me inside, then?"

The burn of his retched breath strangled her neck. His hand gripped onto her chest. His filthy mouth pressed against her ear.

"Mmmm. You're a young one, ain't you? So ripe! I've had a shit night…but you'll make it all better for Garrison, won't ye'?"

She felt queasy. Never more terrified. Meg was not used to the touch of a man…let alone a perverse demon. Erik was her first kiss! Her only kiss.

"You stay right here, ye' little harlot. I'm just gonna be certain we_ alone_."

It was the same terrible voice from before.

Erik was conscious, though his mind still fogged and distant. Tears swelled his eyes. He ached to go _home._ A white figure elegantly contrasted against the dark abyss. Porcelain skin…flowing skirts…long, sensual tresses. An angel?

Under his weak, choked breath, "Christine…my angel…you…you have come for me…"

"Oh, Erik…" The voice was so soft, so sweet. Definitely the voice of an angel.

Erik's angel rushed to the bars, pressing her pretty face against them. He studied the figure's alluring, gentle beauty. Heart-shaped face…blood-red lips…bottomless brown eyes…an enchanting sea of gold.

No, not angel, not Christine—Meg Giry. Erik tugged at his chain, instinctively trying to cover his deformity from her gaze.

He spoke to her between low breaths, still quite drugged and lightheaded. "Do not…scream…Meg…please…" Even now, his raspy voice was beautiful to behold.

"Oh, God! Erik—what have they done to you? Do not worry. Listen to me—whatever I must do…I—I shall get you out of here." She knew he was under the influence of a powerful drug and severely beaten. His ivory dress-shirt was torn down the seams, exposing his sparse, dark chest hairs…reminding Meg of Erik's overwhelming masculinity. Yet…it was only a helpless child who cowered before her. Erik was humiliated, heartbroken and in excruciating pain.

Fresh cuts glistened…dried blood clotted the corners of his lips…whip lashes seethed through the material of his shirt.

Meg had never been so angry.

And Erik…Erik had come to accept his damned fate.

The approaching voice hissed sinisterly, "Ah, how precious this is! Don't tell me you wish to make love to Satan, hmm?"

"Meg…no…he will hurt you…go…away…forget me…get…" Erik's feeble, broken words were swallowed by the darkness.

A fat arm tugged her chest in a painful and brutal touch; Meg stiffened, a shriek escaping her parched throat. Garrison smothered her mouth and cries with his charred lips, pressing Meg into his bloated form.

Smelling and fondling her hair, Garrison sneered at Erik. "You'd like to watch would you?…the closest you'd get to a beauty's touch…this whore is far too delectable…far too delicious for the _looks_ of you…HAHAHAHA!" He groped Meg impossibly tighter, fingers parting her flowing cloak, taunting the caged beast…flaunting what he could never have.

Erik cried out and frantically pulled at his restraints. "On my word…I SHALL TAKE GREAT PLEASURE IN KILLING YOU!" Erik's muscles loosened, lifeless, trembling and weak."…Meg…leave…don't…you should not…have…"

"Seems you two have met, have you?" Pressing his mouth into her cheek, swirling his dry tongue across her skin, "A former customer is he?" Entangling her delicate neck, "Perhaps, she is one of your _victims_…am I right, Opera Ghost? Ah, I never knew ghosts could—"

With a new strength and madness, Erik roared, "LEAVE HER!" His fists were tightly clenched, knuckles starch white, his teeth gritted like a beast.

Garrison loosened his grip on poor Meg—stunned…terrified of his prisoner. He knew the Phantom was a powerful man.

"Let's be out of here, ye' little whore—don't have all night ye' know!" He tugged and yanked at her hair, like a master would his dog. Meg pushed away his dirty hand with a shallow cry. "N-No!"

"What ye' say, ye' dirty wench?" The man sadistically glared into her eyes, challenging her with his threatening and hungry gaze. "I mean…yes, let us stay…" Nodding in Erik's direction, "For him."

"Ah. That's more like it. That's a good, good girl. Nice, nice girl…"

Garrison smiled from ear to ear, rejoicing at the perverse thrill which she offered. His tarnished teeth and swollen gums gawked at her. Erik's heart skipped a beat as the man shoved Meg into the steel bars, his hand groping her bottom. Meg did not fight his touch; instead, she seemed to welcome it. She softly murmured pleasurable promises into his ear. Erik was appalled. Bile rose in his throat. He battled his chains with an impressive strength.

But he relaxed as he quickly noticed Meg's true intentions.

A tiny, brave hand ran up Garrison's thigh…up and over the hanging belly…settling onto his waist. She ran her fingers along the length of his tarnished belt, eyes emitting a feigned twinkle, skimming over his torso in an airy tease; the monster moaned and shivered wildly at the touch, gasping for breath. Meg unhooked the key ring which hung from a loop…letting Garrison keep his dirty mind and hands occupied.

Erik grinned to himself; his little angel brought the skeleton key up to the lock. She found the opening, turning. The bars rattled in submission…the sound lost to Garrison's disgusting, wheezy pants.

Meg pushed it open _just _enough.

She tied her fragile arms around the man's gruff shoulders…dropping the key ring. She kicked it backwards with her ballerina foot. It slid to Erik. He collected it from the ground…and could barely reach his chains—but, after a moment of struggle, he had freed himself.

The man felt metal entangling his neck…a low sneering hissing in his ear. The chain cut through his skin. Blood ran down his throat in long streams. He was choking to death.

Garrison desperately fought off Erik's monstrous hold—but it was no competition. The foul man was frightfully large, yet Erik was still a good head taller. He tried to cry for help with a pathetic desperation, his eyes bugging out…only to have the chained tightened. Garrison gasped, vain pleas cut off.

Meg turned away, unable to stomach Erik strangling a man. Erik locked eyes with the struggling demon, relishing his suffering. The beast fell cold and limp. Erik withdrew his chains from Garrison's pudgy neck, throwing them both mercilessly to the stone ground in a heap of blood and bloated flesh.

Breathing hard, Erik met Meg's glassy glare. She softly whimpered, overwhelmed. Meg studied Erik's enduring eyes. She could feel his guilt. The foul man had rightfully earned his death.

"Erik…he sentenced himself."

Erik nodded; Meg tenderly gripped his shoulder.

"Look at you! Poor, poor Erik…"

She deftly massaged his muscles through his severely torn shirt. She took care not to inflict pain or too much pressure…well aware of the beatings he had recently suffered. Erik jumped at her soft touch, backing away from her beauty and affectionate caress. Meg's sweet smile released butterflies inside his belly. For the first time, he felt himself being drawn to another woman. Erik shivered, feeling as though he were betraying Christine.

With a shaking hand, he sheltered his ugliness from Meg. Her heart sank; Meg tore away his hand and shook her face.

"You are safe now."

Meg smiled inwardly; no, her mother would not be upset. After all, had she not done the same thing…so many years ago?

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet her beaming eyes.

"Thank you…Meg."


	7. The Beast Within Him

_Chapter VII: The Beast Within Him_

Meg and Erik walked in perfect silence for several minutes. She marveled how her height did not even reach his shoulders. The alleyways were dark, grave and threatening…a dangerous place for a young lady to be at such an ungodly hour. The combination of darkness and winter's sting sent vicious chills up and down her spine. She was intimidated by her surroundings, yet felt safe with Erik at her side. It seemed as though Erik read into her thoughts with ease.

"Ignorant, foolish child! What were you thinking?"

"Pardon?"

Erik stopped dead in his tracks, heavy hands planted on both of her shoulders. Long fingers snaked and coiled around her flesh, restraining any movement. His tone was anything but loving.

"You…you might have been killed! You might have been raped! What were you thinking, Meg?"

Meg's first response was warm flattery; his concern for her safety was rather complimenting. Her second thought was pure resentment. Erik was quite right: she could have easily been killed…and, as he had witnessed, vilely raped. But she knew there was much more to these words than what met the eyes. She had risked her neck in Erik's name, and he dared to scold her? Was he so immune to compassion? So undeserving of one's affection and care?

"I…I don't know."

"No! Tell me! Now! Why, Meg? Why!"

She snapped at him, not meaning to reveal her private thoughts. "I suppose I care for you! Is that so hard for you to believe?" Silence. He studied her with those captivating emerald gems. She shivered but forced herself to continue. "By, God! For mercy's sake, Erik…what did Christine do to you?"

He shook her fragile shoulders more aggressively than he had intended. Her bones rattled and rolled beneath his fingertips. "NEVER—NEVER—mention Christine in my presence! The love which she denies me—it destroys me! If you have any mind, you shall do as I say! Do you forget? You have seen me kill! And on more than one occasion. I assume you believe the opera madman died in the fire? You foolish child!"

Meg swallowed, shoving his intimidating grip from her. He had convinced her: the Phantom truly was a madman.

"You never answered me." Meg stepped closer to him, her hand unconsciously finding its way to his deformity. "Is it really so hard to believe…someone might care for you?" She continued, bravely running her hand over the mangled flesh, her touch deft and gentle. "That I may care for you?"

Erik flinched, fighting off her undesired affection. "I have lived a damned life! My own mother loathed me—hated me! Spare your sympathy—This…" Erik grabbed her wrist, ensnaring it completely, digging her fingers into his unholy flesh. Erik dragged them across its surface with a sneer. The debris of dead skin collected beneath her nails. She felt queasy…bile rose in her throat…but Meg masked her disgust. "IS NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE!"

She jumped at his tone. For the first time, she was truly frightened of him. He was desperate, hopeless. He was his worst enemy. He passionately hated himself. Erik could never be accepted nor understood; his inner demons would be certain of this.

"You condemn yourself!"

"What would you know about condemnation?" His town softened. "You…you are beautiful…" Lacking all pride, he traced her jaw line with a chilly fingertips. "Oh, Meg…an angel's face…mine, the face of Lucifer, himself! You have never known rejection…loathing. Do look at yourself, Meg!" Releasing her hands from his iron grip and covering his deformity, "LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE SAVED!"

Fighting back tears, "But I don't fear you!…Know it is not your face which people fear! It is what you have allowed yourself to become. You chose to become Opera Populaire's phantom. The Phantom of the Opera was your own, miserable creation!"

She finally had spoken her mind.

Erik averted his face, not knowing what to make of Meg's words.

"Your face…Christine had seen past it…" Meg inched away from Erik, giving herself space—vainly creating the illusion of safety. She swallowed, preparing for the destined outburst. "…and now myself." To Meg's utter surprise…his madness did not come.

Coldly, "I see."

Erik slowly turned his face to Meg, exposing only his cursed half. The street lantern illuminated his imperfection, his fatal flaw, his birthmark. Beneath this light, Erik could have passed for a demon quite nicely. Meg felt terribly guilty. Perhaps, it was Erik's gruff tone, or the grave alleyway; _his face terrified her._

"So…what do you ask of me? The Phantom…what be your motives for such persistence, Meg?" Slightly bashful, "You…you had kissed me." He slithered towards her like the serpent he was, hissing and all; she fearfully backed away, sensing his awakened madness.

"Erik! I have told you—"

"Do you wish to become another Christine? I granted mercy on her soul! Do not be so naïve that I would intend the same for you!"

"I—I ask for nothing. Erik…what do you even suggest?" She felt his desperation closing in on her. It was suffocating her. He was taking all of humanity's hatred out on Meg Giry. "Stop this, please! You are frightening me terribly! Do you wish me to fear you? To hate you!"

"You come to save me, release me. You so willingly risk your neck for my own! It's only fair you know what you have freed! What cursed monster you have brought upon yourself! Behold!"

"Erik…just…leave me be! What—"

Erik lunged at Meg like a striking viper. She was unable to move nor breath, far beyond paralyzed from the venomous and tantalizing voice. Erik pushed her into the corridor's damp wall…pinning Meg with his magnificent body weight and mercilessly grinding her into the rigid stone. The coarseness bit and tore at her back. Oh! What pain! There would be blood! She was sure of it! Dusty cobwebs tangled around her trembling ankles, eight-legged widows infesting their silk. Instinctively, she struggled to cry out…but the scream was muffled and swallowed by Erik's rough mouth and even rougher kiss. He was branding her with his own torment. She was sure there would be bruises in the morning.

Meg cringed, sobbing into the tight chamber of Erik's throat; she could taste the dried, crusty blood which rimmed the heat of his mouth. Erik nibbled at her pouting bottom lip, chest inflating and deflating with incredible pants. What horror! In a rich, taunting melody, "You don't know what I am capable of. You don't know the horrors which I could descend upon you."

Erik's hands broke through the cloak's material in a whoosh of air, grazing her bare shoulders with his icy fingertips. He tasted her neck, sending a viscous stream of chills throughout her small body…it surged down to the tip of her toes and up again. Meg shriveled to the knees, coiling into a pitiful fetal position; Erik straightened her out without trouble, spreading Meg across the alleyway's wall. His hold was primitive and uncivilized. Anything but affectionate. But, at the same time, he was crying out for understanding.

Meg swore he would crush her with his brutal strength! Erik buried Meg into the cold wall, an onslaught of manliness devouring her whole. Those musician's hands devilishly explored the smooth terrain of her back. Erik's nails clawed through the nightgown, easily ripping the pretty lace. He forced her deeper into his grasp…deeper into his powerful, hard body…and deeper still. "You wish to know the Phantom of the Opera, do you?"

Meg squirmed, kicked, and fought for dear life. She even kneed his privates…just as Maman had once had taught her. Erik growled into her sweating neck. "Little Giry…_be nice…_"

Meg grunted and struggled to shove Erik off of herself…failing miserably. He simply sneered and tightened his embrace on the spooked, quivering creature. Erik was a raw and wildly untamed beast. He could not be reasoned with; a lifetime of being loathed and denied was being brought to life.

Could he truly slump to the lowest low to prove his unworthiness?

"You claim to know me…" His cold hands ran up and down the slender length of Meg, tediously slow in his movements. She stiffened at his touch. Pressing his mouth onto her ear, his sizzling breath likely to make her faint, "You do not…Marguerite Giry…" The overwhelming heat of his breathing pierced her neck in a white cloud. A pair of lips enveloped and clamped together, fastening over the brittle cartilage of her ear. Meg finally shrieked with success, her cry lost to the beastly sounds which poured from Erik.

He nipped, tongued and sucked her dangling earlobe with an insanely monstrous growl. The stone wall cut into the flesh of her back. Erik's smoldering tongue ran across the curve of her jaw line…down, down, down the pumping shaft of her throat. Meg swallowed beneath his swollen taste-buds. Erik tore at the nightgown's sleeve…tonguing the newly exposed and creamy flesh. Beads of perspiration swan down the slope of her shoulder; Erik lapped up the trickling sweat with a deep, throaty pant. Meg's fingers fisted into his damp, glossy hair…pushing him away. Far, far away!

But he would not have it. Not after her unbreakable persistence.

Erik nipped at her shoulder blade, 'tsking' between his fully barred teeth, scolding her resistance.

Erik's deep, angelic voice mutated into something twisted…something terribly demonic. But it was still beyond captivating…and almost hypnotic in its quality. Grasping her even tighter, smothering her beneath his stone body, "You are right, my child…I am no phantom…" Erik's engorged manhood stabbed her tummy, angry and constrained within a cage of filthy cloth. Indeed: Erik was no phantom. _He was all man. _

Sliding his hand up her little waist, "…no opera ghost…" Up and over the sweet curves of her feminine frame, "…I am, quite simply…" Groping her limp neck, "A starving, deprived _man…_"

Choking between her thick sobs, Meg found the power to yell, "Then…take me! If you are truly the beast…the monster you so passionately claim to be—TAKE ME NOW! Have me as your own! Prove yourself, Erik!"

His hands tangled in her soft, burning curls. Erik met her challenge. With each despairing, angst stoke, Meg's breathing fell shallower.

Soon Erik feared he might have crushed his distressed damsel.

His oversized and calloused hands inched crawled down Meg's neck, sliding down and over her milky flesh, inch by painful inch. He found her breasts. Just before claiming them as his own—just before proving his desperation—Erik's hands shamefully recoiled.

He hesitantly looked down, peering beneath a hood of dark eyelashes. He took a moment to study Meg in her entirety…her glistening eyes, stiff frame, cut flesh, skirts melted to the damp wall, tangled hair.

By God. What had he done?

She remained plastered to the wall, unable to speak, unable to move nor draw a breath. Erik backed away, stumbling, their gazes locking. Tears met both of their eyes.

Never had he felt so low nor more of a monster. He turned from her, loathing himself with a deepened passion; hating himself.

Meg was far beyond frightened…but knew Erik had never meant to harm her. She pitied him terribly. For a lifetime, he'd hid behind a mask of rugged self-righteousness. Meg forced herself to see past his beastly facade.

But this…this was a new side of Erik. Like a spooked beast, Erik had always turned to aggression and violence during his desperation; it was an act of defense.

This suppressed need for intimate gratification…Erik's lifetime of intimate denial…a lifetime of never knowing true love…was far more terrifying. Erik was more destroyed than she had imagined. Perhaps, some people cannot be changed. Perhaps, Erik's poor soul truly was doomed beyond all repair and redemption.

He propped his shaking hands on the wall, stabilizing the arch of his limp body.

"Just…go…get away from me, Meg!…" Erik desperately tried to stop his merciless cries. He fought himself, masking his weakness.

But he dropped all defenses. His misery and regret radiated. Erik felt it…he felt his pain and shame crumbling and crushing him from the inside out…suffocating his damned existence. He chanced a look at Meg, instantly turning away. He could not stomach such a thing. Sweet, sweet Meg. The charming and talented daughter of Antoinette Giry.

"I should have never…oh, Meg…what…have I become?"

Meg knew Erik was talking to only himself…pleading with his inner darkness. He was wrestling buried demons…fighting to be a man, yet caged by his cruel past and four decades of suffering. He had learned to reciprocate humanity's hatred and distrust. The only person who he had humbled himself to confirmed this.

Erik had come to accept his cursed fate. He had surrendered to this hateful world with a knowing grin.

Still shaken up from the night's events, Meg lifelessly draped her hand over his shoulder.

"Erik…"

He tensed at her touch…but did not have the heart nor will power to reject it. Not now. Erik was no stranger to rejection and shun. Was she really so blinded?

He did not want Meg's compassion. He did not want anyone's compassion. Erik wanted to be left to himself. Ironically, he found his only peace within himself.

Meg sighed and gently tugged at his shoulder. Shining tears clung to her eyelashes. She peered up at poor, unhappy Erik, showering him with her understanding. "Come. Let's go home."


	8. Erik's Fate

_Chapter VIII: Erik's Fate_

It had been three daunting nights since Erik's rescue. Three nights and Erik had not left the Giry's back room once. Not to eat…not for anything. The rest of the house was thrown into a mad cyclone of chaos. Meg's grandparents were beyond uncomfortable with the current living arrangement. The strange, masked man hiding in the walls of their humble home—who rarely spoke and was being hounded by all of Paris—began to alarm and downright frighten them. They questioned Erik's poor excuse of sanity and their involvement within private thoughts. Harboring 'the Phantom of the Opera?' They were sure it could lead only to tragedy.

Little Christine's terrible cries never seemed to cease; Antoinette's compassion for Erik began to dampen, drawing cold and unfeeling. Never had she met a more stubborn man. Once, he bathed in his misery, condemned to wallow in blood. Now, he was drowning in it…and taking everyone down with him.

This time, she couldn't be at Erik's rescue. Antoinette had sacrificed her own well-being for Erik, not once, but twice. But Antoinette had grown up; now, she was a struggling widow with a family to care for. Antoinette and her daughter were both homeless and nearly penniless, left completely at the Giry's kindness and mercy.

It saddened Antoinette, Meg's grandparents, even Erik: dancing was Meg's passion, and she hadn't been on her toes for months.

Antoinette had put both her parents and daughter at terrible risk, only to have Erik fall back into hell. Erik was living proof of the ancient saying: one can lead a horse to water, but cannot make him drink. She would not allow Erik to drag them into his despair. Her family could not fall victim to his ill fate. She loved Erik dearly, close to a son, but would have to listen to reason. This time, she would be left no other choice.

It was in every newspaper, every headline.

Nearly a week before, papers read:

'_Opera madman finally brought to justice during former opera houses' clean-out…_

_February 9, 1871— _

_Former renowned opera house, the Opera Populaire, was scheduled to be searched and seized of any items of value for a mentioned public auction._

_Rumored to be auctioned is the house's infamous, shattered chandelier, which is said to figure in the disaster. Igniting a fire, which is to blame for a total head count of eleven deaths, over nine left in critical condition. This has risen slight controversy: the opera's doors were ordered to be barred, not allowing audience members escape, which is quite possibly to blame for this jarring number of deaths. Will be investigated further.  
_

_Various other precious findings are planned to be auctioned off. Many of which were collected from the house's catacombs, and now thought to be belongings of the opera house madman, himself. _

_The Opera House Madman, whom is reported to be nameless, having no recorded birth certificate of any sort, was found deep in the house's vaults and is being held in the county jail's custody._

_No upcoming trial dates have been mentioned, for the captive has pleaded guilty on all accounts and murders. According to law officials, a possible public execution is being undergone.' _

Erik's breakout and newest murder had made the headlines. It was appalling: several women stepped forward, claiming to have been 'sexually assaulted' by the Opera Ghost. Some women explained his assaults occurred in 'the ghost's box,' box-five; others swore they had been followed home…taken advantage of in Parisian alleyways. Many declared that the Ghost had robbed/pick-pocketed them during operas. Just maybe…Erik had been right all along: the 'human race' is malicious, unloving, hateful, and cruel. But the saddest part was Erik's submission to such foul claims. He had accepted his twisted fate.

Two mornings after Erik's prison escape morning papers read:

'_Countess De Chagny, maidenly known as Mademoiselle Christine Daae-known to the public as the former Opera Populaire rising soprano, has been questioned by Parisian authorities._

_Raoul De Chagny states on his and his wife's behalf, "The unfortunate events and fate of Opera Populaire is of no concern to the Countess, nor the De Chagny family name." _

_The Count goes on to say, "The circumstances have been blown out of proportion and truth, victim to scandalous rumors and allegations…clearly the De Chagny name and Christine's connection with the opera house has attracted this unwanted, undeserved attention." _

_Count and Countess De Chagny have requested to be left alone, and let these ghosts of the past be rightfully put behind them. The new couple will be making leave for their honeymoon; They have chosen to keep the location withheld. We wish them the best, and all the happiness. _

_Law officials state, "the vigorous investigation will continue, with or without the De Chagny's cooperation." '_

Antoinette knew too well it was only a matter of time, maybe days, until she and Meg would be sought out, questioned, put before the law…

* * *

Meg tapped on the locked door, her gentle voice calling out, "Erik?" No response. "Please…do open up. For all our sakes, please open up, Erik."

Sadly, her fingertips drummed silently against the unwelcoming door. After a hopeless minute or two, Meg gave up with a deep sigh, turning away, her head low and spirits lower. Heavy footsteps caught her attention, then 'click.' She froze in her very tracks, praying. After a brief silence, Meg heard the monstrous footsteps continue, now walking away from the unlocked door. She wondered if it would be best to call her mother over. Have her deal with impossible Erik. By God, what a terrible handful he could be. No, Meg decided.

Erik sat uncomfortably on the bed's edge, head slumped, face buried in hands. Meg studied the broken man, her heart paining. Poor, poor Erik…

An adorable wail attracted Erik's attention. His dirty hands melted from his face, exposing his misery. Meg seated herself beside Erik; he immediately shifted several inches to the right. This was no surprise to Meg. Choosing to ignore his distancing, Meg brushed away her wild curls, making herself comfortable on the bed. This was no easy task—the dreadful thing was rougher than stone!

"She really misses you." Meg offered Little Christine to Erik, forcing a weak, but reassuring, smile. He accepted the antsy youngster without a fight. Meg continued, a bit hesitantly, "And I've also missed you…Erik."

Sensing his discomfort, Meg added, "Well…we all have."

Erik clutched the fidgety youngster close to his chest, still silent. Now by instinct, Erik gently rocked the little one side to side, up and down. Meg kept perfectly silent, perfectly still, marveling at Erik and Little Christine's sweet interaction.

Stifling a throaty chuckle, he remarked, "Ah, Christine…she doesn't so much as stir…" Erik's tone was a bit sardonic, yet still touchingly genuine.

Meg tilted her heart-shaped face on its side, visibly questioning his bizarre statement. Meg moved daringly nearer to him, a few of her golden curls falling in Erik's lap. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn't brush them away. She cleared her throat, hinting Erik to continue.

Meg waited as Erik let himself enjoy the cheerful melody of Christine's coos.

He glanced at Meg warily. Talking mostly to himself, "I haven't a mask, yet Little Christine shows no terror, no fear of the monster before her…" Nearly incoherent, he went on to say, "This…is the…first…time…" Then he trailed off, his throat swallowing the last of his words. An emotion crossed his eyes which took Meg's breath away.

In a ridiculously sweet tone, "Well, of course. Why should she be? You do know, Erik…to her, you are anything but monstrous." Meg waited for Erik's response; It did not come. She dared to scoot her body closer to his own. Erik could feel the pleasant warmth of Meg's body. Smiling, "An angel, one might say."

He echoed the familiar, haunting word, his mind elsewhere, "Angel…"

Meg caught Erik grinning quite shyly. Boasting her pretty smile, she returned his newly found peace. But Erik's eyes were only for Little Christine.

He elevated the young girl, holding her near to his nude, mask-less face, as if challenging her bravery. Putting her sincerity on the line. And to Erik's delight, she did not recoil, breakout in tears, or even squirm in his hold. Instead, she reached out to Erik lovingly and innocently, her tiny hand pinching his mangled half. Half-smiling, Erik's face scrunched at her ticklish and unexpected affection. Then those dangling, pudgy legs kicked crazily mid-air. Erik chuckled, the powerful vibrations of his rich voice shaking the entire bed. Meg also giggled—but not at Little Christine's kicking frenzy; it was Erik's amazement, his fondness and sensitivity which warmed her.

It was the most peculiar, beautiful thing: Christine reciprocated Erik's amusement. She smiled subtly, a gentle laugh bursting from her toothless mouth.

"Oh, Erik!" Meg brought her hands together, clenching them with excitement. Her oversized, brown eyes sparkled as she squealed, "Christine—she hasn't smiled nor laughed before now!" With even more excitement, "Oh, and let me say! I have done endless faces…" She demonstrated one of her many 'faces' to Erik, transforming her mouth and eyelids into a ridiculous and laughable mess. "…and not so much as the simplest chuckle!"

To Meg's dismay, once again, Little Christine didn't find the silly face the least bit amusing; but Erik smiled inwardly, appreciating Little Giry's charming youth.

Erik tickled her dangling feet, sending another melody of giggles from the little one. After a few more tickles, he quit torturing her feet, again holding her close to his face. Perhaps, Little Christine's acceptance was validation for Erik. Being loved for himself…it was all he ever had wished for. They stared in each other's eyes, connecting. Little Christine let loose a final giggle.

Meg couldn't help but laugh aloud at Erik's strange, so very serious, choice of words:

"I suppose she thinks I'm funny looking."

"No, no, no! Silly Erik!" Delicately kissing the girl's soft head, Meg cooed, "You make her happy!" She took a moment to comb out the baby's soft wisps of hair. "A brunette." Meg withdrew her hands, neatly folding them in her lap like a lady. "If my eyes do not deceive me, she is going to be a brunette." A feminine sigh. "Big, blue eyes and beautiful brown hair." Playfully, "She'll certainly be the eye of every able suitor…the eye of all Paris!"

Saying nothing, Erik returned Christine to the warmth of his lap, cradling her closer then before, feeling a sweet intimacy between them…a new trust.

A pair of heels echoed the home's wooden panels, bringing the tender moment to an end. Antoinette stood stiffly in the doorway, her body language and tight expression unnatural. The air seemed to suddenly thicken.

Her voice was sad, hopeless, truthful.

"They'll be coming quite soon now…at the very most a matter of days."

No further explanation was needed; Meg, Erik, even Little Christine, all tensed at her grim words. Erik's hands unknowingly neglected Little Christine. Meg immediately scooped her from Erik, letting Christine settle into her arms.

Antoinette exhaled a painful sigh. "I am afraid you can no longer hide here, Erik. You'll have to have left here—Paris—as soon as tonight. If not, I fear it shall be all our necks."


	9. Shattered

_a/n: This chapter is very, very dark. I promise the story lightens within the next few chapters! But things must get worse before they get better…_

* * *

_"Mirrors can kill, Daroga._

_You may safely take my word for that."_

_- Erik, Kay_

* * *

_Chapter IX: __Shattered_

Erik sat in dark silence, unblinking, deep in thought. Despair was closing in on him, crushing what ever remained of his crumbling soul. He was alive but not living. Erik adjusted the dehumanizing mask on his face. Erik's brow was damp from sweat, and perspiration plastered the overheated porcelain to his mauled flesh. He removed the half-mask, setting it within the comfort of his lap. Erik tugged his folded cloak from the dresser, wiping down his wet face. Hopeless, he hid himself within its woolen material.

Erik glared down at the blaring white mask; it contrasted against the surrounding gloom, returning his stare with those blank, emotionless features.

Erik ran a hand over the uneven landscape of his face. Exhaling a deep sigh, he pressed the porcelain back to his curse.

Antoinette's words echoed his mind…

'_Erik. You'll have to have left here—Paris—as soon as tonight. If not, I fear it shall be all our necks.'_

The Girys had gone into town for a short while, leaving Erik to himself, expecting a plan at their return. Erik exhaled a long, painful groan…hating himself.

He allowed his thoughts to dance for a while. Finally…he came to an ideal decision. A final path…if you will. A sardonic smile claimed his lips. It was a path he should have taken long ago, Erik contemplated. No longer would his cursed fate reign over him. No…tonight he would take it within his own hands. Erik's smirk widened; at last, he would return home…

He entered the Giry's bedchamber quietly, discrete as a ghost, graceful on his feet. The room was perfectly dark, the Giry household perfectly empty. Erik sighed as a sweet sense of relief swept through his churning veins. He examined the small room; it was decorated humbly and a bit outdated. Erik centered himself in front of the chipped vanity.

No exotic perfumes, powder, or makeup…instead, several faded photographs lined its counter.

But a specific photograph caught Erik's eye: a proper young-lady, who Erik immediately recognized as Antoinette Giry, was cradling a pretty child in her lap. She was a lovely little girl, glowing with promising appeal. Her slender legs dangled freely, pale ballet slippers snugly wrapping each foot. Marguerite Giry.

A shadowy figure stood square in front of Erik…mimicking his every move…his every breath. _He_ was who Erik had come for.

Erik turned the kerosene lamp's knob, spilling a pleasant glow into the room. Normally, Erik wished for only darkness and solitude. But tonight was different. Tonight, Erik was far from alone. Tonight, Erik would bring his inner demons to light. They would pay dearly.

Erik tore the porcelain from himself. So dehumanizing…so uncomfortable! He tossed it aside, madness and bitterness lacing his throw. Face nude, he glared into the reflection. Erik bravely returned the gawking demon's stare.

Grinning and hands balled into tight fists, Erik lunged at the monster. He attacked the glaring demon with both tense fists, pounding madly, drinking in his sweet vengeance. A rich, piercing war-cry erupted from his throat. The demon cowardly vanished at contact…like a true phantom.

Erik inhaled a deep breath, pleased. He didn't mind his hands wrapped in blood. The glass protruding from his palms didn't rattle him the least bit. Yes, his masterful, beautiful hands… those hands which created the richest, most heavenly music… hands which offered their touch and affection, only to be denied… _those_ _hands_ were pierced terribly. And the tingling sensation was refreshing, a calming sense of defeat. A normal man might have screamed in agony, cursing the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. A normal man may have even withered to tears… pleading…

But Erik knew: he was far from a normal man. Several more punches were thrown, sending the shattered glass every which way. Erik fell to his knees, not in surrender, but in search…

His gushing hands swept back and forth, over the glass, blood drumming atop its shiny surface. Erik collected the largest shard in his reach. He released a groan of dissatisfaction; it was not as large as Erik would have liked. It would have to do.

Erik rested the cool fragment of glass against his mangled cheek; a sigh of content fled his lips. Erik shifted the heavy shard, standing it in an upright, proud position. Tenderly, he dragged its point over his disfigured flesh. The demon surrendered, allowing it entrance. Left completely at Erik's mercy…

Erik would only punish his cursed half. He led the glowing fragment to the unnatural perimeter in his face. The border which separated heaven and hell, angel from demon. Man from beast.

Erik lifted the glass from his mangled flesh, allowing himself a moment to study the new damage. But the glass piece was reddened to a rich scarlet, clouding Erik's reflection to a distorted blur. Disgruntled, he gave a masculine huff, peering down. A hundred tortured Erik's swam beneath his feet. They were all incomplete, disfigured, and drizzled in red. A morbid collection of Erik's shattered soul.

Erik rose to his feet, reaching his full, magnificent height; not an inch less.

Again, he set the point upon himself, lower now. Erik outlined his jaw-line lovingly, expression blank all the while. His drag was not as firm as before; _this_ flesh seemed undeserving of such punishment and mutilation. The glass was drawn downward…down, down, down, down…

Erik introduced it to the top of his neck…just beneath his unshaven chin, several inches above his Adam's apple…

He guided it down…slowly, carefully…_bittersweet release_…Erik fantasized.

A piercing cry split the room. A feminine cry. A slim arm snugly encircled his neck from behind. His abused, bleeding neck…

It madly battled Erik, hands pulling the glass from his iron grip. Erik stumbled back, caught in a state of utter shock, tripping over himself.

_'Crunch!' _

His heavy boot crushed the glass-piece to nothingness. After a moment of realization, a painful moan rang from Erik's throat. It was a cry of angst, wrapped in despair and sadness. _Why?_

With a new strength, Meg swung her small body in front of Erik.

In a fierce roar, "NO! You…should NOT HAVE…stupid, insolent, girl! I didn't wish to be saved! Now look what YOU HAVE DONE…!"

She paid no heed to his tantrum. Resentment empowering her words, she spat, "How could you! How…Erik, how! How! Erik…"

Erik quieted, returning her hard stare. Complete silence fell over them both. Meg's ginger eyes abandoned Erik's, descending over his torn flesh. Paralyzed, she couldn't look away from the grotesque, pitiful mess which stood before her.

Sweetly, stifling imminent tears, "Erik…why?" She stroked his untouched half gently; Erik winced back, as if Meg's touch was more painful than his severed cheek.

Erik didn't reply. He studied her porcelain face; how it was hugged so gracefully by her golden hair, lips a dangerous shade of red.

After a moment, Erik's body collapsed into Meg's stiff embrace. So vulnerable, so frightened…

Erik clutched onto her tightly, dearly…as only a child would. He savored Meg, face burying in her soft curls, melting into the comfort she offered. His labored breathing quickened, heart pounding.

Meg stood completely stunned, staring forward and seeing nothing. In silence; at loss for words. Meg wriggled in his arms a bit, for, Erik's brutal strength threatened to crush her.

She felt Erik weakening in her hold, shaking madly. His suppressed cries gave off a beastly rumble, caressing Meg. Even the melody of Erik's sobs were music to the ears. A tender slice of Heaven. His sobs grew stronger, as Erik fell more and more vulnerable. Erik's head firmly perched itself over her shoulder. Wetness trickled down the nape of Meg's neck in generous streams…tears? Blood? She could not know.

After a lingering moment, she weakly returned Erik's embrace. Her long arms wrapped his shuddering posture; they stood embracing dearly, chest to chest, cheek to cheek, heartbeat to heartbeat. Almost resembling mother and son. Twiddling her thumbs, Meg drew gentle circles upon Erik's tense back. Calming, Erik regained control of his breathing.

Gently, she pushed Erik from her arms, breaking their hug, auburn eyes drowning in her tears. Tears for Erik.

Erik stared down at the sea of glass. He stood stiffly, ashamed, refusing to meet Meg's eyes. With a handkerchief, she gingerly wiped away Erik's tears. Her heart ached. Burned and twisted, threatening to cave in. His lids were swollen and heavy; eyes, a tarnished shade of emerald. Where was their charming glow? Alluring appeal? Erik took the handkerchief from her grasp, entwining it between the tips of his fingers, not allowing his blood to sully it. He returned the sweet favor, dabbing away her descending tears. Her reciprocated heartache. Meg's eyes were a dark chocolate brown, welled with compassion, sweet and puppy-like. Erik saw pleading in their depths.

Erik fingered the material—warm and damp. Not tears—an ocean of blood.

Erik's hand immediately freed the stained cloth, letting it spiral to their heels. Erik stroked his chin. _No, no—still wrapped in blood. _Yes…the red-wine continued to fall in graceful streaks, painting his throat and chin a deep crimson.

Erik latched onto Meg's wrists with hesitation, lifting them into view. Her delicate fingers were trembling, generous gashes indenting her palm's landscape.

Erik broke into merciless tears at the sight of Meg bleeding. What had he done? His chin trembled as he tenderly kissed each of Meg's reddened digits. He didn't dare leave one neglected.

One of Erik's oversized hands clasped around both of Meg's; his opposite hand gently combed through her golden tresses. His fingers repetitively pulled through Meg's stained curls.

Silkily, "Oh, Meg…I…you have been hurt…no…oh, Meg…" His head bowed in shame.

Through tears, "Erik…why…? How…could…"

Erik relaxed in the comfort of her arms, shivering, painful waves crashing through his churning blood. His heart tightened several times, constricting, pounding, ready to burst free. The pain… so unbearable…

"I will care for you…" Meg pulled away. Addressing his fresh wounds, "…clean you up…" Forcing a weak smile, "…you will be perfectly fine, Erik… I promise you this. All will be well."

Like a true ballerina, Meg spiraled from his embrace. Meg chirped with urgency, "I'll go fetch some bandages…draw you a bath."

She turned away sharply; Erik roughly grabbed hold of her arm.

Sternly, "No! I can tend to myself!…" Little Christine was far more cooperative than this terrible man. Erik continued as Meg stared at him with a blank expression. "…I haven't much time. I must leave here…"

A brutal silence ate the last of his words. Erik released her forearm, awaiting Meg's understanding.

Nothing. Patience thinning, Erik gritted his teeth and barked, "Marguerite…?"

"Don't be a fool. I, too, haven't much time, you do know."

Erik threw her a tight look, entirely frustrated with the girl. He wasn't used to such a strong-headed female; Christine had always cowered in his shadow.

Erik's muscles began to constrict, breaking out in violent tremors. Through a tightly wound and gritted jaw, "What games you dare play, child…? Go from here!"

"Erik, you perfect fool! Do you really think me to abandon you! So very heartless? Near to Christine? After all we've managed through! You and I—we are to leave from here, together…!" A silence. Then she gently added, "…well, Little Christine, too, of course. I have decided this myself."

"WHAT? WHAT—I DON'T NEED YOU!—ANYONE!—NOT YOU! NOT CHRISTINE! YOU…INSOLENT GIRL—GO care for your own, foolish self!" Erik trialed off in disbelief, mentally tripping, beyond aggravated, and not making much sense.

The excruciating pain was claiming Erik; devouring him whole. Where, Erik thought resentfully, was his bitter sweet release?

Erik bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. Groaning in agony, he managed to add, "Stupid…females…"

"Oh, please!" Scolding, "Don't you dare argue it! Do you really intend to leave her? Christine—_Little_ Christine—she has grown to love you! Can you only think of yourself?"

Meg's words were falling fainter and fainter, muffled, nearly inaudible. Erik's temples were throbbing, pulse booming loudly.

"I wouldn't allow it! NO! STOP TRYING TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT, YOU IGNORANT CHILD!…SOMETHING THEY ARE NOT! Haven't you the slightest idea what danger-"

"Yes."

"What…insolence! You…go from me, now! Go…you…leave…get…" Erik's words and body were crumbling right before Meg's eyes. Her determination was not doing anything for his caving nerves.

Spirit fading, eyes clouding, "Meg…I…I…I…you-"

"Erik…?…Oh, God, no! Erik!"

Legs finally giving way…Erik fell forward helplessly. He collapsed at Meg's heels in a bloody heap of flesh, plunging into the glass sanctuary. He was trembling viciously, breathing falling more and more shallow. Erik groaned, perching onto his severed hand. Immediately, his weight gave out, crashing to the floor. Straining his vision, Erik stared up at Meg and all her glory. His heart trembled. So beautiful…an angel…

Then…

Everything fell into complete darkness.


	10. Meg & the Devil's Child Part II

_Chapter X: Meg & the Devil's Child Part II_

Erik's dark lashes fluttered open as his emerald gaze battled against the overwhelming light. The light was merciless; powerful and blinding. His eyes fell closed, shutting out his unwelcoming atmosphere. But, after a tight groan of discomfort, he lifted his head as much as his aching neck would allow.

Meg's chocolate gaze brightened; she was beyond relieved to see he'd finally awakened. It had been an exhausting task…teaming with her poor mother…caring for the tortured Erik. He was a massive man, inhuman in stature. The glass wounds were profound, calling for desperate urgency. If they had not been quickly tended…his cuts would have been fatal.

Erik stirred in pain, his raw wounds plaguing him. Meg hovered over Erik's reclined body, her hands gently checking up on his bandages. Secure, she thought. She closely examined the fastened bandages; the brutal truth buried beneath its linen haunted her. No. It wouldn't cease in haunting Meg Giry…until her deathbed and beyond. Scars, such as these, are permanent. Resistant to any and all healing and immune to soothing.

Erik had successfully bestowed severe damage upon himself.

The entire length of his chin had been cleanly punctured, the indention laying dangerously near to his throat. Upon collapsing to the sea of shattered glass, he had suffered a great amount of bodily injury. His handsome physique would be scarred quite well. Erik's disfigured cheek was further deformed and far more grotesque.

Yet one wound concerned Meg most: Erik's hands. Those masterful hands had been cut, sliced and severed. Perhaps beyond all repair. She prayed Erik would still be capable of music. For, without his music, he would find no reason to live. Music was all Erik had left.

It was well past midnight, and the town had retired for the evening. A very poor choice of resources were available to the Giry women. Regardless, Meg and Antoinette had done as best they could. Due to their circumstances, a hospital was far from an option.

* * *

Erik felt soft curls tickling his neck in a pleasant tease, a feminine touch cascading over his aching face. He jerked back; the gentle touch burned through the inflamed flesh.

Meg's movements were considerably limited. She, too, had fallen victim to the glass. Thanks to Antoinette, Meg's hands had been securely bandaged and were on the path to recovery.

Poor Erik! Poor Meg! Both Erik and Meg were a physical and mental wreck. Even Erik had seen far brighter days.

His eyes struggled, desperately trying to decipher his blaring surroundings. So light…far too light. Erik swore he was in his candlelit lair. Yes…he had lit his darkness…for Christine, only for his Angel. Angels do not deserve darkness.

Groggily, "Christine…Christine…_ange_…" Meg knew Erik could not make out much more than a blur.

She withdrew her hand, considerably uncomfortable. "No, Erik…it is I."

Erik strained his neck, finally meeting eyes with the golden spectacle. "Ah…little Marguerite Giry…"

Erik's hand quickly jumped in front of his face as he began to regain full consciousness. His breathing turned labored, choked, and strained; Erik desperately searched his face for a mask.

Through a clenched jaw and painful groan, "Foutez le camp, le Démon sinistre. Retournez au diable." _(French translation: Fuck off, sinister Demon. Return to your hell.)_

He turned into the pillow's comfort and hid when no mask was to be found. Erik jumped up; a linen kingdom was suffocating him, wrapping his face. The bandages were damp, swelled with his warm blood. Erik was ashamed and maddened. This was supposed to be a breath of divine relief, his release and escape. He felt more trapped, more imprisoned, and more monstrous than ever before. A few tears escaped his eyes, dampening the pillow. He kept to the pillow's security…not daring to let Meg see his pain. Erik preferred his _other_ mask.

Muffled, into pillow, "Go away."

Meg tensed, unsure of what should be done. She shifted a bit, deciding to obey his command. But, Meg quickly had a change of heart as her eyes fell over Erik's shuddering body. So helpless, so vulnerable…like a tortured child, Meg imagined.

Gingerly setting a hand atop his stiffened shoulder, "Erik…I—"

Erik's shoulder sharply dodged her uncalled touch. His fingers dug into the sheets, clutching them dearly. His sadness quickly mutated into something else. Something terrible. Something terribly ugly.

In a roar, "GET AWAY! LEAVE ME!"

His booming voice was nothing short of unsettling. It took an unbelievable amount of courage for Meg not to flee from the woken beast.

A silence fell over Meg. Then, she curtly declared, "No."

Erik slowly left the pillow, turning towards her determined voice. He met Meg's challenge.

"YOU hear what I SAID, Giry? Insolent CHILD! I DON'T NEED YOU, I DON'T WANT YOU. Just…get away, could you?" Erik's fuming grumbles vibrated the entire bed. Between his monstrous sounds, Erik faintly spat, "Stupid female."

Muttering 'stupid females' was becoming a nasty habit of his.

Meg shuddered. Erik's hellish tone, thick mound of crimson bandages, and peeking wounds terrified her. If this wasn't the sight of a living, breathing demon…what possibly was?

Erik saw her fear. Chuckling, "Yes…so you have come to see what you've saved, haven't you, Little Giry." Coldly, sardonically, "Your persistent is becoming of you. Though, I shall advice you to quit, as you are now ahead…I give my word, child: beating the cruel odds is short lived. Things shan't always stay in your favor. No, far from it…" Retiring to the soft sanctuary of his pillow, Erik completed his thought, voice broken. "I should know."

Stammering, "E-Erik…I…"

"WHAT? WHAT!…WHAT DO YOU WISH OF ME?"

Meg couldn't find her voice; the sulking demon was sure of this.

Erik continued, resentment quickly piling, "LOOK!" Erik jolted upward with a new strength. He caught Meg's terrified face between his bandaged hands, pulling her angelic face up against the demonic one. Their dampened foreheads courted, grossly melting against each other.

"LOOK!" Meg refused, her head madly shaking within his desperate, unyielding grip. She attempted to turn her face out of his hands…only for it to be firmly realigned.

As he shook her face, "YOU LOOK AT ME, GIRY! FORCE YOURSELF. BEHOLD WHAT YOU'VE SAVED…YOUR CREATION, MEG! What release have you dared deny me?…THIS…" Erik freed one hand, aggressively ripping away any and all bandages, exposing himself. Exposing every scar…internal and external. A sad and morbid mess met Meg's stunned stare. Erik finished with a roar, "…IS ERIK!"

The two locked lethal eye contact. Erik loosened his grip, soon freeing her completely; a fat tear rolled down her ghostly-white cheek. Meg winced back—her expression of pure disgust—as she patted away Erik's steaming blood from her forehead.

A sudden wave of guilt crashed within Erik's shattered soul. What had he become? He loathed himself more than ever before! He expected Meg to run for her life…escaping from his iron wrath…for all eternity. Erik was sure she had abandoned any chanced compassion or pity…just as Christine had.

Erik never would have expected her chosen words.

Meg spoke with sincerity and an unfathomable compassion:

"I am sorry for your pain, Erik." He swallowed his sickened stomach, eyes widened. "No one deserves such tragedy…such ill fate cursed upon them." Meg continued, keeping unwavering eye contact as she re-tended to his naked, facial wounds; he flinched out of her reach. "I have faith light can be found…if only you shall let yourself seek it…"

Erik broke Meg's firm eye contact. His gaze fell onto his hands for the first time—his quivering, bandaged, and badly beaten hands…

The grave reality dawned. Had he lost music? Not able to suppress his heartache, a few tears swan down his deformity. The tears dove onto his battered hands in an unfortunate attempt to heal their damning scars. To Erik's dismay, these tears were far from holy water.

Meg visibly shuddered, harnessing back her own tears, realizing Erik's sudden epiphany.

Erik inhaled a generous amount of air, mourning his tragic loss. Bitterly, he brushed away all tears.

"Faith? You dare speak of faith? Child, know I abandoned 'faith' many, many years ago…far before you were so much as born into _this_ world! Spare such words…" Erik took a moment to fondle his linen-wrapped hands. "Poor, poor, Marguerite…has your mother not yet told you…? Denied you such inevitable truth?" In a single, swift motion, Erik ripped away the linen from one hand. He quickly withdrew his cloudy gaze, unable to stomach such tragedy. Such cruel reality. "Faith is blind."

"Yes." Meg softly brushed a hand over Erik's outstretched thigh, standing upright. It…_burned. _His skin was sensitive to her contact, even through his trouser's hefty material. Erik cursed himself inwardly, finding Meg's tender touch to his thigh as rather…pleasant.

Erik looked upon the strong-willed female with a wide and disbelieving gaze, stunned by her unbreakable courage. "Faith is blind, Erik. Blind to those who choose not to see."

Meg collected her skirts and walked to the door; she stopped in its archway. Meg turned to Erik. He was uneasy; her words rattled his tender nerves.

"All people fall into an hour of need…desperation." Meg averted her gaze. Before leaving Erik to his thoughts, she added with a deep and heartfelt sigh, "Even phantoms."


	11. Au revoir, Paris!

_Chapter XI: __Au Revoir, Paris!_

A gentle knock tapped at the archway. Meg shifted her weight to and fro, balancing a small tub of lukewarm water in her grip. The faint rustling of pacing skirts drew Erik's attention towards the archway. He growled to himself, feeling smothered and suffocated. She knocked again, a bit louder then before. Only silence. _Darn him! Curse him!_

Another knock; of course, it went unanswered. Meg pouted her lips and set the small tub at her heels. She thoughtfully planted a hand on either side of her waist, drumming her tiptoe in a frustrated melody. Frowning, she took a moment to wrestle her bandages; her hands were sore and ached terribly. Nonetheless, she thought mostly of Erik's pain.

Her scars would heal.

Meg's thoughts strayed, traveling to the horrible encounter which she'd recently shared with her mother. Antoinette went absolutely mad when hearing her daughter's proposition. Meg was naïve and oblivious to the world. Though, she did understand Meg's concern (and slight obligation) for Erik. She, too, would always hold those same feelings. They were unconditional.

Meg had declared with a mindless passion that she wished 'to leave Paris with Erik and Little Christine—only long enough to get Erik on his feet and accustomed living above ground.' He had only known life beneath Opera Populaire…Erik had dwelled within the opera's haunted catacombs for over thirty years! The world was a foreign and unwelcoming place to Erik. A place which he had never desired to be part of.

After a long, long, long, exhausting mother daughter debate, Antoinette agreed…with conditions.

Meg vowed to write each and every day, staying with Erik _only_ long enough to familiarize him with life outside of the opera's bowels. Antoinette was hesitant to allow even _that. _Familiarizing Erik with the world would take an entire lifetime…or more. In the end, the decision came not to what was in the best interest of Erik or even Meg. Little Christine deserved a chance…and Erik was her one and only chance.

An incredibly sweet voice chimed out. "Erik, may I join you? Please?"

As Meg had expected, Erik remained silent, still as death and unresponsive. She poked her pretty face around the corner, glancing into the small bedchamber. The magnificent gold of Meg's hair flickered across Erik's vision. The fiery hue trapped his gaze, drawing him to her undeniable elegance.

Meg leaned further into the room, balancing _en pointe. _Her lovely, youthful face tipped onto its side, a shy grin stretching the flesh of those ruby lips; the length of Meg's golden tresses nearly swept the floor.

Erik and Meg locked gazes; Meg's auburn eyes glowed brilliantly…helping to ease Erik's unhappiness—just a bit. They were so youthful and enlightening! Christine had brown eyes of a much duller shade. Like Erik's eyes, Christine's had been soiled by a lifetime of heartache and loneliness. But Meg's eyes…Meg's eyes held an unexplainable and rare warmth within them. Erik could feel their heat.

Erik was alarmed and positively horrified with himself…daring to compare Meg with his Christine. He had always known them to be quite different; now, he found himself appreciating their small opposites.

Erik's intrigued stare flustered Meg, polishing her cheeks an attractive and rosy hue. Seeing this, Erik averted his indecent stare, embarrassed and silently cursing his wretched weakness.

Meg gracefully stepped into the room with a charming twirl of her skirts. She folded her arms comfortably beneath her plump chest, as her tight expression loosened. She spoke in a pretty singsong voice, coaxing the beast that was Erik. "Oh, Erik! You absolutely stubborn, terrible, terrible thing!"

Her musical words had successfully charmed him. They had a pleasant, promising rhythm…he inwardly took note. With one more dashing twirl of her skirts, Meg vanished from the room…returning shortly with the monstrous tub. Good mercy! Erik could not believe such a thing…

"What is the meaning of this?" His voice was deadly and venomous.

Meg began the impossible journey to Erik's bedside, struggling not to drop the tub and spill the water. Her voice was strained as she battled the tyrannical wash bin. "This…my good monsieur…is meant for…those terrible, ghastly wounds of yours."

"No."

Meg froze, losing patience and meeting her wit's end. She stood in the heart of the room, her grip weakening…threatening to buckle and give way. Oh, how she longed to dump the water right on top of Erik's big-head!

"Put that wretched thing down."

Meg did as commanded. Only a mad person would not obey such a powerful voice!

Erik stood, shaky on his legs, head spinning in a vicious cyclone. He stepped forward, swaying and unsteady on his feet. This was the first time Meg had seen Erik move without radiating his usual, haunting elegance.

He paced towards Meg, kneeling, collecting the wash bin from the floor. She also knelt, assisting Erik; he firmly peeled her hands from the tin sides, replacing them with his own. Both Meg and Erik remained in a crouched position, exchanging their awkward stares. They were inches apart…intimately near. Uneven breaths joined and mingled in a heated swirl. A lethal silence passed over the two dumbfounded creatures. Meg neatly tucked a few golden curls behind her ear—one of her many nervous and overused habits.

Erik's harsh voice severed the quiet.

"What are you? Foolish?" He rose, cradling the tub against his chest. Brows furrowed and shaking his head, "Your hands need their rest."

Meg could not suppress a soft smile; Erik's tone was sharp, threaded with annoyance…but his words were equally sincere.

He clumsily dropped the wash bin beside the bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a deep and melancholy sigh. Meg took a thoughtful moment to study Erik. He looked so exhausted…like a corpse! His charming emerald eyes were dimmed considerably and his movements far less graceful. It saddened her.

Meg knelt beside the wash bin and bedside, settling on her knees. She jumped up and breathed a faint 'oh!' as the spilled water soaked through the thin material of her skirts. The water spread all around her, gradually flowing across the wooden panels. Remaining perfectly silent, Erik yanked the pillow behind his head, carelessly tossing it to the floor. Meg smiled slightly, pulling it near to herself. She perched onto the pillow, freed from the dreaded water.

She scooped her blond tresses into her hands, using a scarlet ribbon to fasten them back in a loose ponytail. The golden locks cascaded over her left shoulder, attractive against her porcelain complexion. They seemed to always frame her dancer's body in a seductive manner. A few stray curls dangled in front of her eyes; she blew them away with a shallow puff of air. Meg drew her head downward, unfolding a soft hand-towel that lay in her lap. She dipped it into the wash bin. She was careful not to get her bandages too damp.

Meg sighed; the warm liquid soothed her irritated flesh. Then, she groaned in frustration. Several more curls escaped the ribbon, falling in front of her face, blocking her vision. She shook her head side to side and arched her swan-neck back, fighting off the stubborn tresses. Her femininity got the best of her; no, Meg wasn't about to wet her hair! Meg shook her wet hands to and fro in a pathetic attempt to shake them dry. Erik groaned silkily; he didn't appreciate being splattered with water.

Without thinking, Erik's fingers combed through Meg's dangling curls, gingerly sweeping them behind each ear. Suddenly, he stiffened, slowly pulling through her hair a last time. He averted his gaze and rested both hands across his chest, realizing what he'd done. It was a small favor he had often performed on Christine. Christine's curls were softer. Meg's smelled nicer.

Meg instantly stopped wringing the hand towel, pleasantly surprised by his thoughtful gesture. Meg peered up slowly, hesitantly, meeting Erik's eyes. Her fond expression whispered a silent 'thank you.'

Erik cleared his throat with a hefty cough, masking his fluster.

Reading her thoughts, "You could hardly see."

Meg nodded in agreement as her rosy lips surrendered to an appreciative smile. She finished wringing out the towel, eliminating the excess water. She hummed a bit, her ballerina foot tapping along to the cheerful melody. Erik half-grinned. The familiar tune brought a nostalgic sadness into his thoughts. Meg continued to hum 'Think of me', oblivious to Erik's discomfort.

She draped the hand towel over an arm. Her hands rested on top of Erik's with hesitation. _Thank goodness he did not recoil!_

"May I remove your linens, Erik?"

Meg kicked herself mentally as she felt her cheeks baking. Thankfully, she wasn't the only one with thoughts, somewhat, 'improper.' Erik gave a rough chuckle, thinking things he knew shouldn't be thought…

Yes, it could not be denied; at heart and soul, he certainly was a man…

"Well, it all depends…do I have so much as a choice?"

Something about the girl's unconditional kindness affected Erik in a strange way. He loathed being hassled…he loathed her terrible persistence…yet, he did not have the heart (or strength) to continue bashing Meg's pure intentions. Antoinette, her mother, the only person to ever show any form of concern for Erik, had done similarly many years ago. She had tended to his infected whip lashes and burning wounds. It had been well over thirty years; Erik had _never_ forgotten her kindness.

This is how Erik knew her intentions were pure.

Erik's attitude shift took Meg by complete surprise. His tone remained emotionless and indifferent, yet words seemed unusually playful. It made no sense to her, though she liked this side of Erik. He was clearly still in pain, physically and mentally; what could have possibly brought about _this _mood change?

'_Erik, the pain has likely gone to your very head!' _

"What…?" The inquisitive word rolled off his tongue in a delightful grumble. Her tiny frame shuddered like a leaf.

"Oh, dear…"

Meg scrunched her nose in embarrassment, realizing she had spoken her thoughts aloud. She raised a hand up to her forehead, punishing herself with a light tap. Erik's brows knitted in a puzzlement, not understanding such a weird gesture. Several beads of water tinkled down Meg's face in generous streams. Her dark lashes trapped one of the crystal drops; she madly blinked it away. Finally, she completed her thought, "Don't mind me."

"Good. I shan't."

Meg forced a smile. His cooperation was certainly a nice change; but, for a reason unknown, it was unsettling. She had been painfully persistent; perhaps, he had given into her will, rather than continuing to fight it off? Females…certainly the more difficult of the two genders. Patience: their blessing and curse, Erik imagined. Yes. After 'Don Juan' and Christine's _wanton_ behavior, Erik's patience had worn thin.

Slowly, carefully, she unraveled the linen from his hand; earlier, he'd angrily ripped away the other bandage. She suddenly felt entirely silly and beyond embarrassed; Erik could have done this _himself…_easily!

She rolled the bandage in her grip and tossed it aside. One of Erik's hands rested in both of her own. She frowned at the sight. Meg unconsciously brushed over the surface of his abused palm, tracing the forming scars with her fingertips. She stoked the Phantom's genius. She felt him wince under her touch; she could not say if it was from pain or otherwise.

"I…apologize."

"Why?"

"Well…" Gently, she dabbed away the dried blood, her gentle touches almost motherly. The lethal combination of Meg's brutally red lips and the water's soothing heat created a delicious sensation within Erik. He shivered, holding his breath. Erik forced his eyes from such a torturous spectacle. Meg let herself continue, "Why, I apologize…I apologize for causing you such discomfort, of course."

"No, I mean…" Withdrawing his hand from Meg's care, "Why?"

"I…don't quite understand—"

"You are young…beautiful…an accomplished ballerina…" Meg blushed as her eyes emitted a faint sparkle. Though, his compliments were cold and unnerving. She knew they were not intended to flatter her.

"WHY? Why, Marguerite, must you insist on tending to a wretched demon! Condemn yourself to my misery?" Meg swallowed. Erik continued, his voice breaking. "Go to Christine…" He said the name with hesitation and heartache. "Both you and your mother…" His voice began to raise, his emotions piling to a new high. "GO to Christine Daae! They could care for you far better than myself! Let the ghosts of your past be put to rest! The ghosts of MY OWN past!"

Meg knew exactly whom Erik was referring. Le Vicomte De Chagny and his blushing bride.

She pursued her lips a bit, considering his words. "Well, you are no ghost."

Erik leaned into Meg's face, speaking with a sardonic and low whisper. His hot breath scorched Meg, burning her alive.

"Do remember…you did call me a phantom, Marguerite."

She visibly shivered at his husky tone.

Refuting, "Yes. Though, no man's an island…nor phantom a ghost."

Erik returned to a full reclining position, rolling onto his side. He propped an elbow against the ungodly mattress, perching onto his elbow. God! Erik's underground home was far more comfortable than _this_ place! Erik's body sank a bit, unable to support the gravity of his solid weight.

Erik took both of Meg's feminine hands into one of his own, examining her bandages. His eyes stayed completely averted as he did so. His touch was gentle, yet far from_ affectionate_. He unraveled the linen, placing it casually aside. Her fingers coiled in her palm. His light touch was uncomfortable. It bothered her. It stung and hurt! Erik forced her fingers straight and brought his face close to her hands. Squinting, he observed closely, two chilly fingertips dancing over their damaged surface. Meg noted how he studied them with a medical eye.

She flinched a bit. His grip tightened, restraining her movement.

"I apologize. It does rather hurt."

He scoffed, slightly insulted. Very matter-of-a-fact and a bit smugly, "Well, of course it does. You haven't removed nearly all the glass." Erik sat upright with a groan. "And dancing around with that ridiculous wash bin certainly wasn't of any such help."

Meg shied away; he was right! Erik could not have been more right! The wash bin was utterly ridiculous and unnecessary. So…why did she feel the need to do something which Erik could have done, himself, a million times better?

Most importantly, why was Erik_ allowing _Meg to do so? He was a proud man; it was not like Erik.

His masterful hands seemed to work miracles. Meg made an inward bet: given the right confidence and right woman, Erik would be a _passionate, attentive lover. _Surely, those godly hands would prosper at the _art_ of love making…

No, no! She couldn't think such indecent thoughts! What was wrong with her? Had she learned nothing?

Why, Meg pondered with a growing frustration, did she feel this…desperate need to care for Erik?

Meg knew: without her assistance, Erik never would have cared for himself. He had no reason to. Erik had become indifferent to himself—to everything. Erik would have died. Besides, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree…the ballerina inwardly mused.

Erik fondled his hands. They were free of all glass. Erik wondered how long he had been passed out. He hated the thought of Meg and Antoinette bandaging him…tending to his butchered hands and (literally) dragging around his weight. Ugh—he was no different than some pitiful, wounded dog! A dog which bites the hand that feeds! He cynically—silently—chuckled. Damn human race.

Clearing his throat, "Go fetch the tweezers, would you." It was not a question.

Meg nodded and swiftly left.

* * *

"Maman, the tweezers, please."

"What for, mon cheri?"

"Erik…he insists on tending to them." Meg outstretched her poor hands, pointing out the obvious.

"Very well." Antoinette planted the tool in Meg's grip, a bit too roughly. Meg nodded her thanks, turning on her heel; Antoinette latched onto her forearm.

"Ma chérie…you mustn't be fooled."

"How do you mean, Maman?"

"Erik—he's a genius, no doubt. Though, merely accomplished in the things of life…not their significances, ma petit."

This only further confused her.

"Fooled, Maman?"

"Do not believe his care, Erik's compassion, to be from affection. For in the end…doing so shall mean despair for you both. You understand, Meg? You must always guard your heart…if nothing else."

She nodded her understanding, wondering the true extent of Erik and her mother's relationship.

"Oh, and Meg. Remember—tonight…" She sighed deeply. "It _must_ be tonight, if ever."

"Yes, Maman. It shall."

Both Meg and her mother knew: _Financial__ly_, she and Erik would manage just fine. Being an O.G. certainly had its perks…being paid a monthly salary of 20,000 francs…for over thirty years.

As for Antoinette and her parents: Erik didn't hesitate to leave behind a generous sum of his well-earned salary.

* * *

Erik sulked in the carriage's furthest corner, Little Christine gingerly napping in his arms. Erik wasn't happy. He was quite pissed. He pressed a quick kiss to the little ones forehead, drawing her closer. He turned to Meg; seeing she was observing outside her window, Erik let himself smile. He smoothed out Christine's soft, brunette wisps.

For a reason far beyond his understanding, Erik found a rare, foreign comfort with Christine. He bellowed; Christine stirred at the soothing melody of Erik's voice, falling into a more peaceful slumber.

Erik glanced across the carriage. He shot Meg a harsh, bitter stare.

He was doing this for _her_…NOT _her_. And, certainly, not _himself_.

* * *

_(a/n: Hope you enjoyed chapter eleven and are satisfied with the story's direction! Made this one a bit lighter than the previous two. I'll tend to switch back and forth, giving a variety to the story's mood. _

_Oh, and don't fret. Erik is already starting to have an attraction to Meg...he's just a stubborn brat. Thank you to everyone! Especially my reviewers. Your feedback means the world to me. _

_fun fact: I did some research, and apparently, as of today... 20,000 francs equals 29,457.55 dollars.)_


	12. Ladies of the House

_Chapter XII: __Ladies of the House_

It was a small and intimate town, established along France's scenic outskirts. Not to mention, the perfect escape for Erik to find refuge. Here, within the very heart of La Havre, the law held no threat to Erik, Meg and Little Christine.

La Havre, or "Door to the Ocean," was nestled within the sea's breathtaking cliffs, offering all the beauty of the land. La Havre was an ideal and romantic atmosphere for raising a family; a flawless combination of high-culture, industrialization, and seclusion. Whether Erik liked it or not…he, Meg, and Little Christine had become somewhat of a family.

Granted, Erik and Meg were far from intimate or loving; though, a sense of 'family' and commitment certainly radiated. It was the unspoken and genuine desire to care for each other in one's time of great need. Erik's darkest hour had come.

Little Christine never ceased in plaguing Meg and Erik's thoughts. She was barely passed infancy, oblivious to the world she had come to know.

Meg had promised her mother she would return home when given the chance. Antoinette had sternly made it known: her inevitable bitterness replaced any love she once held for Erik. She still sympathized with the tortured…but did so with reluctance and in spite of herself. And, with each passing day, she found dismissing the compassion she felt for Erik becoming surprisingly easy.

Antoinette's thoughts and feelings for Erik had constantly changed throughout the years. She had rescued Erik from the world's hatred, sheltering him from its cruelties. Antoinette gradually came to think of Erik as a brother. During these early, innocent years of youth, Antoinette and Erik found a rare comfort and friendship in each other. But, within time, Antoinette and her feelings matured; she no longer sought friendship in Erik. Antoinette eventually revealed her suppressed emotions…forever tainting their infantile bond. Erik had wished for many things; love was not one of them…and then came Erik's Angel of Music, his beautiful Christine Daae.

Christine, the face of his voice, shared in his passion for music. She blindly adored and cherished Erik…her savior. He gave Christine wings, an angel's voice and her song soul. Erik had given Christine Daae himself…only to be betrayed and condemned, hunted down like a loathsome beast and monster.

The years slugged by, and all contact between Antoinette and Erik was soon non-existent. Erik, now a man of twenty, had condemned himself. He had condemned himself knowledge and discovery.

He committed every waking hour to mastering the arts. Composing, singing, painting, designing, astronomy, philosophy, psychology, architecture…the list was endless, Apollo's Lair the limit.

But, from his birth, one art form had always called to Erik. One art form had embedded itself within his very blood…rewarding him the smallest taste of pleasure: music.

All of his hidden and suppressed emotion, intimate denial, and self-consuming bitterness was brought to life through his music. It charmed. It bewildered. It enchanted. It seduced. It burned. The haunting notes cried out, weeping for the star crossed lovers and the damned.

All it takes is the ideal balance of Time and Desperation. With enough Time and Desperation, Erik accepted that he was no longer a part of the _human race_—nor did he ever intend to be. No. He was a ghost.

The Phantom of the Opera was born.

* * *

It had been an exhausting carriage ride, seemingly with no end in sight. The reluctant trio traveled for days on end, only making the most critical of stops. Meg began to wonder if she had made the right decision; Erik hadn't warmed up the least bit, and she already felt more than a bit homesick. Never had Meg been away from Paris or her mother for so painfully long! Meg inwardly winced; the illusion had finally shattered.

The carriage came to a rough halt, jolting Erik and Little Christine from their separate dream worlds. Meg smiled and poked her pretty face out of her carriage window, inhaling the delicate sea water. Her ballerina tiptoes curled, as the wonderful sensation claimed her body. The gentle breeze caressed Meg's rosy cheeks, teasing and transient.

They had arrived. Their new home—and Erik's two ladies—awaited…

Meg smiled as Erik and Christine yawned in perfect unity. Erik adjusted his too tight cravat, bellowing miserably, loosening its binding from his strangled neck. A long sigh of relief fled his lips. Meg giggled uncontrollably at his obvious discomfort. Did Erik truly not realize he had retired from his Phantasmal lifestyle? Meg inwardly sighed for the poor man; she knew that was far from the truth…

Erik tore away the evil cravat with a sudden urgency. Was that another…giggle? He shot Meg a deadly glare, far from amused.

If looks could kill!

"Oh, Erik…what an impossible, thick-skulled brute you are! You are clearly uncomfortable, my dear…must you be so very stubborn? You needn't have been so. It would have done you good…following my advice!"

Erik scowled at the girl's brashness; who did this child think she was? Erik wasn't about to be lectured, let alone controlled, by some stupid, insolent female. Erik outstretched a gloved finger accusingly, scolding Meg, forcing the girl into her rightful place. Gloves…Meg had failed to notice them before now.

"Might I enlighten you on a couple of things, _my dear?_"

His tone was sardonic, bitter, and outright cruel. Though, nonetheless, dangerously seductive. It couldn't be denied: Erik—this insanely passionate, Phantom of a man—was a creature built from the darkest shades of seduction.

Meg noted how 'my dear' was spoken with malicious intent, anything but sincere. Meg grunted, finding herself far more angered than insulted.

"Why, Erik! You mock me!" Her elegant arms crossed comfortably beneath the generous and plump weight of her chest. Erik took a moment to examine her suggestive and unhappy posture. Had she become delusional? Such mindless, childish antics were wasted and entirely pointless.

In all that was holy, Erik loathed the siren. But good God in Heaven…she was an adorable, tempting little thing.

Erik's voice deepened three octaves, spoken silkily:

"Your advice is unneeded and uncalled; I am not your _husband_, nor you my_ mistress_."

Meg felt her cheeks burn a flaming scarlet. Never, in her seventeen years, had she felt more embarrassed. Envisioning Erik as her 'husband' and she his 'mistress'…was far beyond Meg. Such thoughts both intrigued and frightened beyond words. She was simultaneously thrilled and terrified by the terrible proposition.

Erik caught himself returning Meg's blush as he realized the extent and affect of his words. And what indecent words they were…

His thoughts trailed to life as Meg's husband. Then her as his mistress. That thought made Erik blush a brutal shade…much redder than ever before.

For a fleeting moment, within their uncontrollable, adventurous thoughts…Erik and Meg were joined in holy matrimony…

Erik's cursing casted a frown upon Meg's rosy lips; he really needed to quit the profane habit…before Christine could learn the word's terrible meanings! Meg certainly wasn't about to allow Little Christine's first (two) words to be 'stupid female.'

Erik quickly averted his shy gaze and masked his crimson embarrassment, bellowing a low, beastly growl. Meg had grown to know this man very, very well; his shameless façade was pointless, proving nothing more than his stubbornness. His unnatural posture, wavering eyes, and rugged vocals, gave it all away. Though, she found Erik's inseparable innocence to be quite appealing. Erik thought otherwise.

Meg's and Erik's silence was lethal, thickening with each passing moment. Erik's too-loud tone and angered words woke the slumbering angel. She tossed and turned within the comfort of Erik's arms, crying out her discomfort.

Both Meg and Erik felt pity on poor, Little Christine; no four month baby should undergo such exhausting travel. But, within the arms of Erik's heavenly voice, she seemed perfectly happy, perfectly content. Did Erik not know? His voice offered much more than a baby's comfort; nearly any _grown _woman would happily succumb to such a God-given gift…

Both Erik and Meg knew: Christine Daae hadn't been a grown woman.

Erik's booming words shattered the quiet:

"I refuse to take orders from some female!"

Erik had grown to loathe the human race—especially women. Meg assumed his bitterness derived from his cruel mother, Christine's betrayal, and years upon years of intimate denial. Very well her_ own_ mother, as well…Meg could only imagine.

Intimate denial…

Meg's wandering eyes roamed the rugged man before her, drinking in his glory; her attraction to Erik was powerful, and becoming more so with each day. His voice was absolutely beautiful and nothing short of seductive. Meg had lived in the confines of Paris' finest opera house; Erik's voice put all others to damn shame. Andre and Firmin were rather stupid, not offering their 'O.G' a full time contract.

This Phantom's unmasked features were far too handsome, and the mask only added erotic mystery to his appeal, Meg dared confess. She felt guilty for thinking such thoughts.

Not to mention Erik's physique was painfully tempting…

"MARGUERITE!"

A piercing gasp erupted from Meg's throat; the surprise of Erik's voice nearly gave her, and a now bawling Christine, a heart attack. Once again, Meg's cheeks were polished a bright and merciless red. Erik's ramblings had gone completely unheard…incoherent. Meg had been considerably distracted…at no fault of her own.

"I…I apologize…I…I couldn't hear you."

Coldly, lacking all emotion and humanity, "Pardon?"

The topic needed to be changed, and quickly. Stating the obvious, "We've arrived; I do believe we ought to attempt to settle in."

Erik leapt from the carriage with haunting grace, Christine cradled to his chest. She cried a bit; Erik rocked her gently, humming a melody beneath his husky breath. She immediately calmed at her father's voice, once again, descending into peaceful sleep. Meg couldn't help but envy Christine._ Both _Christines…

Meg pushed aside the draping curtains, poking her adorably angelic face outside the carriage's window, her feminine features set aglow. She grinned wide at the two angel's tender interaction. His sensitivity never ceased in charming Meg. Such affection proved Erik's kindness, loneliness, and desperate need for love and comfort. Erik and Christine's bond was like nothing she'd ever seen. It was such an immaculate, heavenly sight; Meg nearly wept from its beauty. Little Christine was very fortunate.

Erik's stare ascended to the carriage, meeting Meg's cinnamon gaze. His dark eyes narrowed intently.

Erik turned away, grumbling, "I am fully aware we've arrived, _Marguerite_."

Meg frowned; she preferred her nickname much more than Marguerite. She could only wonder if Erik knew this. Although, 'Margureite' seemed to slide from Erik's lips quite deliciously.

Meg reeled herself back inside the carriage, inhaling a deep breath. She smoothed back all of her skirt's tiny imperfections and adjusted her blonde curls, feeling increasingly jittery. Butterflies were released in her tummy. She was so…nervous! This was a foreign, rather frightening feeling. Meg had always been a social young lady…raised with many other girls…having to share her mother's attention…and often shoved forcefully in the spotlight.

If _she _was anxious about this new lifestyle, being tossed into society…how, Meg could only imagine, must Erik feel? He had lived as a ghost, the Opera Populaire's beloved Phantom, for over thirty years; alone, constantly feared, and uncared for, never knowing the world above his dark lair.

Meg began to step from the tall carriage with a ballerina's grace. Erik hugged Little Christine to his body's warmth, opposite hand out held for Meg's taking. She couldn't suppress her destined smile.

Meg accepted his gentile assistance, whispering a barely there, "Thank you…Erik."

Erik's attention turned to the carriage driver, visibly anxious. He shifted his magnificent body weight back and forth, spare hand combing through his sleek, black hair with repetitive strokes, nervously adjusting his white half-mask.

Erik finally inched toward the fat man, hesitation and fear lacing his steps. He handed the driver the proper amount of francs, alongside a less-than-generous tip; Erik didn't appreciate the driver's amusement. The driver's smirks hadn't gone unnoticed by the bickering Erik and Meg.

And amusing it was… the driver assumed the two spiteful creatures to be married. He was taken by utter surprise when Erik had declared that he was not, in fact, the exquisite, young lady's 'husband', nor she his 'mistress.'

The driver's crude gawking at Meg hadn't gone unseen by Erik; he did not like it. Not at all. The man's work was far from over, and his tip was dwindling.

The ocean's pleasant breeze swept through Meg's golden curls. She snugly hugged her arms round her slender frame, victim to the chilly atmosphere and a whirlwind of emotions. Erik swallowed the lump in his throat. Her long curls danced elegantly in the wind, giving her an angel's appearance. Erik's emerald gaze slowly climbed over Meg entirely; he couldn't say why, but she had never looked more beautiful than at that moment. Her chaste white dress, billowing skirts, flowing tresses, and enlightening smile…Erik found it all very attractive. Not to mention, her fiery temper was slightly refreshing.

Erik's porcelain mask contrasted against the night's gloom; if she hadn't known any better, Meg would've believed she was in the presence of a true phantom.

To Meg, all business, "We shall retire to the local inn for the night. I'll look into a proper home tomorrow." Meg could only nod her agreement.

* * *

"Two rooms or one, Monsieur?"

Erik's stunning eyes widened, his posture stiffened; Meg shifted anxiously back and forth, back and forth. The two exchanged their widened glances with hesitation, a long, profound silence wallowing. Awkward. Erik ached for his dark world. Even death.

"Monsieur…?"

"Two." Erik cleared his throat, "Two will do just fine."

The inn keeper gave Erik, Meg, and the sleeping child a strange and suspicious glance. He arched and knitted his unkempt brow, disliking his latest guests. An intimidating masked man, young beauty, slumbering baby…and an unhappy carriage driver dragging over a month's worth of luggage? Not to mention, the lovely girl seemed beyond anxious and out of place. It was all far too strange for his liking.

"Yes…I…see…"

Erik growled his brewing anger, teeth and fists tightly gritted, throwing down a generous sum of 'extra' francs. He loathed having to buy this man's respect; the last thing they needed was to be marked as suspicious…or reported to the authorities. Erik longed for his Punjab Lasso. Damn human race.

The man nodded, a grin widely spread across his wrinkled lips.

"Very well. This shall do just fine, Monsieur…Mademoiselle…"

The man's arrogant smirk of satisfaction was what broke the camel's back.

Meg burned to punch that smug grin off of his face.

His rudeness…taking advantage of such an awkward circumstance…improper assumption? It was absurd! It pained Meg…seeing Erik so uncomfortable and incredibly defenseless. Poor Erik was already far out of his element and visibly suffering. No. She could not—Meg would not—tolerate such disrespect.

"Pardon my intrusion…may I say, Monsieur…?" It wasn't a question. Meg continued hotly, threading her slender arm through Erik's. To her surprise, he _barely_ recoiled.

"_We_, two, are indeed coupled; _I am_ his Madame…" Gesturing the pretty child, "She, our daughter."

Erik could not believe what he was hearing.

He was finding Meg to be more and more like Antoinette each day. She was more than a little out of line…though, Erik dared admit to himself…Meg's attitude, suggestive comments…were both refreshing and…downright adorable? Erik kicked himself mentally, easing from Meg's entwined arm.

"My sincerest apologizes, Madame—"

Meg did not stop there. "You see, Monsieur…Little Christine, here, tends to become quite fussy. Hence, the need for separate bed places. The reason for my dear _husband's _request…"

Erik adjusted his mask with his newly freed arm. He felt as though his fresh wounds and cuts were reopened…his damned blood spilling every which way. The porcelain was clammy against his damp and perspiring skin, a swamp of sweat wallowing beneath. So dehumanizing! So uncomfortable! Erik longed for the sanctuary of his dark world. Or death.

Erik cursed aloud; he swore…if Meg cooed 'husband' one more time…

Meg puffed out her curvaceous breasts and went on, "Though…I am sure you can be accommodating to my _husband's _needs…having a lady of the house, yourself?"

"Yes, indeed," the old, lonely fool lied.

Erik quickly averted his handsome gaze, sheltering a grin from his fiery 'madame.' He was impressed. Beyond embarrassed, flustered, but nonetheless, genuinely impressed.

The ashamed man slapped the 'extra francs' atop the mahogany counter, sliding them into Erik's gloved hand. A pair of skeleton keys followed after.

"Please…if I can be of service to you, Madame…Monsieur… in any such way—"

Erik and Meg collected the keys, signaled the reluctant driver, turned sharply on their heels, and left the speechless man victim to his own, messy thoughts. What, the inn keeper wildly pondered, could this rare beauty possibly see in this disturbed man?

Erik and Meg Giry were, indeed, a mis-match made in Heaven.


	13. Burned

_(a/n: Brace yourself for some Gerik imagery__…wink, wink__…)_

_Chapter XIII: __Burned_

Meg and her strange Phantom stood tensely across from each other, both gracing a door's archway. Their given rooms were conveniently situated just over a yard out of reach, the slim hallway being the only true barrier. Scone lamps burned low, their candles gradually meeting their wicks, destined to succumb to darkness in a moment's time.

Meg and Erik studied each other with unwavering gazes, his emerald eyes burying in chocolate ones. The thick silence was eerie, almost palpable, the one relief being the lamps' gentle whisper. The white of his mask gleamed brilliantly, the elaborate contrast of light and dark stunning to Meg's curious eye. The broad expanse of Erik's shoulders nearly filled the entire archway. Opera Populaire's resident Phantom was nothing short of regal and everything masculine; he lived up to his reputation quite well. His presence was electrifying; Meg withered beneath the heat of his stare. He dressed only in France's finest, the suits clearly tailored to meet every strong bend of his body.

Yes…Meg's gaze, wide and innocent, yet also adventurous and receptive, admired the Phantom of a man. Man. He who had denied belonging to the 'human race,' was, in short, all the beauty 'its' men could ever hope to offer.

Long, lean legs allowed him to tower over her ballerina's figure. Stiff shoulder's upheld his powerful, phantasmal façade, aching to be soothed by feminine touch. Intimate touch..a lover's caress. The muscles of his back defined and well sculpted. That raven hair…perfectly styled, lips tender…almost begging to be kissed; longing for a woman's fearless affection.

_Had he been kissed? Apart from on the cheek…by me? _Meg's unblemished soul blushed two shades of red.

Christine and her Angel's final moments, within the depths of his blackened lair, were a mystery to Meg…to all, apart from Raoul De Chagny. What ever had happened, whatever phenomenon had transpired between the two star-crossed Angels, had been a powerful one. The Phantom had finally succumbed to his weakness and ill fate; he had showered his one and only love with his mercy.

He had freed her.

Erik's love for Christine, in the end, had weighed out his painful longing for companionship.

After the first, and only, performance of his opera—his _Don Juan Triumphant_—the Phantom of the Opera had truly become a ghost. His passionate spirit had vanished, leaving behind a corpse in its ashes.

Meg's eyes decided to rest on his chin. Erik's chin…it was chiseled and strong, forming stubble gracing its shape…proof of a too-long denied shave. For reasons unknown, the thought—no, image—of Erik tending to himself in a morning ritual (as any man might, she imagined), both amused and shied Little Giry.

Erik returned Meg's stare, equally attentive, if not more so. In contrast to the Phantom, Meg Giry was the epitome of purity and youth. Unlike Christine, Meg's complexion was not a gentle ivory. Instead, it held a subtle glow within its flesh—proof of her time spent in light. Although, within the last months, her flesh seemed to have paled to a porcelain hue. Where was her light now?

A golden blanket of curls draped over her slender shape like a diva's shawl. It's coverage was a pitiful attempt to shelter her modesty. Though, it merely enhanced Meg's graceful, God given curves—mocking Erik with the forbidden. Then, her eyes…how deep they were, beautiful, rimmed with some far off elegance; her burning gaze betrayed Meg's few years of life. They were empowered by an ancient, indescribable and thoughtful force, one Erik could not name…one Christine Daae had not held.

Meg seemed to only dress herself in the purest shade of white, which proved befitting to an equally chaste soul. Christine had also harbored purity…but hers was one of ignorance and oblivion. Her gentle soul had emerged from a past which had weakened her.

No. Christine Daae was far from an_ evil_ person with hurtful intentions. Far from it. But her sincerity was open to question. Why, in _her_ Angel's darkest hour, had she only proved humanity's heartlessness? Countless years ago, Christine's darkest hour had come…and her Angel had never left her side…her voice.

No. Erik had never abandoned her.

Meg had never abandoned Erik.

Erik had done everything in his power to push Meg's compassion far from him; as for Christine…he had murdered in her name.

* * *

A buggy lay helplessly between the awkward duo; its adorable contents fast asleep, ignorant to the intense air pressing around her. An angelic cheek rested atop a monkey with cymbals, robes of Persia gracing his plush form.

Meg and Erik's eyes parted from each other, descending to the slumbering Angel in a perfect harmony. _Their _slumbering Angel. She really was beautiful.

"Erik?" Her voice was a whisper, so soft…Erik was forced to draw closer, severing the barrier between them.

"Yes…Marguerite?" Her spine significantly hardened…as it too often did.

"I suppose I shall care for Christine?"

Erik look confused. Meg continued, words growing nearly inaudible, whilst Erik grew closer and closer. Soon, dangerously close. She gasped a soft gasp; Meg could feel the penetration of his heat.

"…well…we share separate sleeping places…as you know…" she stuttered almost dumbly. "And…so…Christine cannot…be two places at once…and…"

"Yes, yes…I do realize our accommodations quite well." Meg blushed. A heavy silence took Erik and Meg by surprise, devouring them both.

"Her rightful place is with you."

Meg swore she saw a distinct sadness cross over his eyes. She smiled, "Perhaps…although, I do believe she may claim otherwise."

Whatever disappointment had invaded Erik disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Erik released a husky, haunting chuckle; Meg visibly shivered.

Erik's eyebrows knitted, as he instinctively stripped himself of his cloak. He took a suave step forward, ruining any form of separation between him and Meg that had previously existed.

"I suspect you are cold?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Meg was not cold. She was burning alive. Skin clammy, skirts plastered to the bothered flesh of her legs…

But, truth be told, it was still mid-winter, the weather still biting and harsh. Little Christine was wrapped in two extra 'blankies' (as Meg would say); Erik had carefully knitted both during the seemingly endless journey.

_Three days prior…_

_"Erik?"_

_He met her curious gaze with reluctance, dropping the woolen and half knitted material to his lap._

_"Speak."_

_"Who taught you to sew?…If you shan't mind me asking?"_

_An expression of offense, embarrassment, and finally, sorrow, warped the man's rich features._

_Erik dropped his chin, shaking his fallen face. "No one," was his bitter reply._

_He wouldn't admit Antoinette Giry, her mother, taught him the craft…many, many years ago._

_Meg didn't need to know._

Meg felt the compelling need to offer him some form of an ultimatum. She saw the masked pain in his eyes; a silent plea…no more isolation, solitude…loneliness.

"We can trade off…if you wish!"

Erik attempted a smile, nodding his agreement. Meg nearly died when he engulfed her in the painful heat of his winter cloak. She was burning.

He mentally cursed himself; Erik regretted offering her the comfort of his cloak…being denied Meg's beauty…robbed such a simple, such a soothing pleasure…

No. Indecent.

All the while, she wondered, _would this be so uncomfortable_…_such torture_…_had this been another's cloak—not Erik's?_

The brutal duel, of mind and body, was exhausting, never ending, and stubborn; where was the mercy?

Meg continued to ponder the heat of Erik's cloak, delicate hands twisting the rugged material as she did so. The lingering, masculine scent of winter and pine (Erik) assaulted all five of her senses with the most subtle of movement. Inescapable, damnable. Meg unconsciously shook her head, outwardly refusing surrender to the mad cyclone of her beckoning thoughts.

"Yes…?"

Meg returned to the moment. She appeared to be swallowed whole by the Phantom's oversized cloak, so tiny and lost within its wool. Drowning within his cloak…Meg looked downright delectable. An odd—but not entirely uncomfortable—sensation rang through the entire length of Erik's stiff form.

"Pardon?"

"You…objected to…something." Erik stepped back twice. "What was it…_if you shan't mind me asking_?"

"Oh!" Clearly flustered and mentally kicking herself, "Nothing. Really. I am beyond exhausted…please, don't mind me."

"Very well." His voice was silky and low, adding to the unseen flame's overbearing heat.

The two studied each other a last time, in search of each others souls.

"Erik…do sleep well."

Meg walked backwards several steps, pulling her and Little Christine into their newest living space, struggling to be graceful on her toes…the poised prima ballerina she was supposed to be.

"You, too."

"Oh…" The one syllable lingered in the air, dissolving into a curious silence and blending with the darkness.

Where had the stubborn Phantom gone? Who was this man? Who is Erik? Strangely, this discomforted Meg. For the first time in days, she truly was frightened. After a night's rest, she would likely have her beloved Phantom back…Meg inwardly contemplated.

Meg offered Erik a final smile, slender fingers rubbing the archway's smooth wood in distant thought. She nodded her silent farewell, feeling unusual and uncomfortable, out of place…discreetly shutting her door. The inn's aged wood seemed to moan in objection.

A chilling voice split the air.

"Marguerite…Meg…?"

She poked her pretty face round the partially shut door in swift response, eyebrows raised in a fine arch.

"I…" Silence. Then, "thank you."


	14. Past the Point of no Return

_a/n: __The time has come! The rating has been raised to **M**._

* * *

_Chapter XIV: __Past the Point of no Return_

Erik stretched his limbs like a feline and yawned like a beast. Sun rays shattered the billowing curtain with a regal and hauntingly beautiful glow. A gentle breeze stirred, and the gauze curtain fluttered lazily about, caressed by the wind's heated breath. Long and luminous shafts of orange and red spilled across the swollen floorboards, bathing Erik's sleepy form. The faint sound of waves colliding with the sea cliffs chimed beyond the inn; seagulls made their obnoxious calls, their cries echoing and stifling the beauty of La Havre.

"Quiet you, damnable fowls," Erik cursed aloud, as if the gulls might understand his unhappiness. They only cried louder, and Erik swore it was to spite him.

Erik groaned and rubbed his unmasked eye, finding himself irritated by the morning's luminous assault. He was not used to waking surrounded by light. The opera house's cellars held room for only darkness, while the Giry's flat seemed to always be engulfed by some strange and ominous shadow. Erik basked in the sudden revelation; this was the first time he had ever woken to a room with a window. The rays massaged his reclined form, warm and inviting. It was…pleasant. He appreciated their soft and gentle glow. He had always been a creature of the night. But, on this morning, on this day…only beauty could be perceived. Erik found himself to be strangely restless.

The wooden panels creaked and groaned beneath Erik's weight as he came to his feet. He ran a shaky (and nearly healed) hand through his hairline in intense reckoning. He was surprising himself, more and more, each and every day. He missed Little Christine. Even worse…he missed Meg. Warding off those flourishing emotions was becoming increasingly difficult. It was a daunting task, and one he did not care for in the least bit. She was divinely beautiful…in every way. He didn't know quite what he was feeling for the girl…nor what he wished for. Whatever it was—whatever emotion was consuming both his mind and body—vastly escalated each time he looked into her eyes.

One thing was clear as La Havre's morning sky: Erik wished to kiss Meg.

Erik wished to run his fingers through her elegant web of curls. He wished to glance down at her rosy cheeks and sleeping face. He wished to feel the weight of her golden curls plastered to his sweat-lined chest…as they both held each other, spent from a night of repetitive love making.

Erik massaged his temples, nursing his building migraine. He shook his head violently, willing away sensual images of Meg and the forbidden makings of love. Erik stared forward, adjusted his mask, and muttered his words, "Damn. When did I lose myself? Why must Little Giry be so irresistible?" With a final grumble, Erik completed his thought. "Stupid females."

* * *

After ten agonizing minutes of tortured thoughts and visions of blonde goddesses, Erik somehow regained his consciousness. He grunted, cursing his manhood, and made way for the door. His steps were surprisingly energetic. But Erik stopped as quickly as he had started. He froze over as a chilly breeze swept through every last inch of him. He paralyzed.

His gaze descended down, down…down and over his nude chest_._ Needless to say, Erik had been beyond exhausted (mentally and physically) upon his, Little Christine and Meg's anticipated arrival. Erik had immediately collapsed into bed, far more dead than alive…somehow summoning the strength to remove his trousers and dress shirt. Snug pantaloons hugged his hips…and not a shred more.

Erik's glare abandoned the over-exposed flesh of his body and planted atop the mountain of luggage. He sneered between a tight jaw and gritted teeth, loathing the human race. It was a very large mountain, indeed—balancing and threatening to topple over in a glorious landside. As a twisted form of punishment, the carriage driver had dumped each and every suitcase in Erik's room. Erik did not have the courage nor strength to rummage through the mixed garments. It was quite ridiculous how much luggage Meg had insisted to bring along. So, so much luggage.

The carriage ride and lack of air had gotten to their heads after several days of travel:

_Evenings prior…_

_"I must say, Marguerite…I am quite surprised we have traveled as far as we have."_

_Meg questioned him with her eyes, a pout to her lips, preparing for his insult. "I am surprised our carriage has moved at all. You could likely dress the entire Persian empire."_

_"Oh, you are an insufferable, terrible, terrible man!"_

_Erik smirked, apparently satisfied. "Why the need for such a bounty of clothes, Marguerite?" Erik studied her intently; he truly wanted to know._

_"I suppose I wished to have a 'bountiful' selection of unmentionables on the night of our courting!…In hopes one may be to your liking! Do tell me: Is your unruly appetite satisfied, now, Erik?"_

_Erik didn't utter a word until the following morning._

Erik groaned, remembering. No, he would not rummage the luggage. He could simply not risk stumbling upon Meg's…unmentionables.

It would kill him. The carriage driver had known this.

Erik pondered his two, ugly choices. They were both equally undesirable: pay a visit to Christine…at the risk of Meg waking…try to get some sleep.

Erik smirked almost deviously. If Meg was half as tired as he was…well…there would be no danger of her waking.

* * *

Erik turned the tarnished door knob, nudging it open the slightest bit. A shaft of light poured inside the room, as it creaked and squeaked in objection. Erik cursed the wretched door. Meg had given her room key to Erik the night before—rather than keeping it for herself…

_"I fully intend to sleep well past noon! And having lived with a roomful of girls most my life…well, I am quite the heavy sleeper. Christine's cries will go unheard…I certainly have no desire to neglect her. Here, Erik…you best take my key."_

And he did. Erik delicately shut the door behind him, emitting a soft groan of suspense.

Little Christine cooed at his entrance and Erik smiled. He paced over to the charming buggy and charming baby, quieting her with a gentle and barely audible 'shush.'

"We don't want to wake mother, now do we?"

Erik paralyzed; he had committed a Freudian slip in Meg's name. Erik could not help but chuckle; a significant number of Sigmund Freud's theories seemed to involve 'raunchy innuendos' and 'the battle of the sexes.' Meg would have delighted in the discoveries of Freud.

The feisty, little devil kicked at her blanket in willful defiance. Tiny fists balled menacingly, and pudgy legs suspended as she threatened to cry out. Erik's first thought was to panic, his second to flee, and third to obey Little Christine's whim. Erik sighed and dipped his head forward—very near to Christine, so only she could hear. "Okay, my angel…okay," Erik murmured, defeated. He knew there was only one thing that would calm her.

"If I sing…will you promise to not cry?"

She grinned and giggled at the masked man looming above, accepting his offer. Erik cleared his throat (as though he was preparing to sing an entire opera, rather than a lullaby) and leaned into the buggy as far as his towering height allowed…

"_Sleep, child, sleep_

_Guardian Angels God sends thee…"_

It was miraculous; Christine fell asleep instantly! Her thumb unconsciously slipped into her slumbering mouth. Erik smiled down at the little angel with a nod of satisfaction. He secured the blanket snugly around Christine, bundling her within the warmth. Erik gave a bear yawn, scratched at his nude chest, and stepped away from the buggy. A (rather arrogant) proud and paternal smile came to his lips. Erik was inferior; it could not be helped. Erik saw that his mission had completed. It was time he made haste…before _she _woke. Erik withered backwards—backwards, towards the door—continuing to hum for Christine as he made his leave.

A feminine sigh swelled the room. It was passionate and sensual…

It was very sexy.

Erik jumped back in horrified alarm, eyes running across the bedchamber searchingly…rising to his _other angel._

Erik had never seen something so pure…so beautiful…so peaceful…

He melted at the immaculate sight which lay before him. She…she looked like a goddess; Erik ached to worship her. Meg's petite frame was stretched over the ruffled sheets, elegant legs entwined. Erik could not swallow back his smirk; she had always been a messy sleeper. He remembered this from Opera Populaire. It was one of the small and harmless differences between Meg and Christine.

Oh, Christine…Christine…he could not bring himself to think of her…no…

Christine Daae slowly fled his mind as Erik marveled at Meg Giry.

Her hands were pressed together, as if in prayer, resting beneath a sleeping, smiling grin. Golden and unruly curls fanned across the many pillows, cushioning her porcelain face. And her nightdress…her nightdress was a wicked thing to behold—between morning's light and the rather sheer material…each and every curve of her body was illuminated. The slight arch of her bottom…the delicate curve of her hips…the elegant length of her legs—which were toned perfectly from her years of ballet.

Her loveliness was like venom in his veins, and he was a serpent ready to strike.

Erik felt himself moving towards Meg…barely aware of himself…seduced, like a moth to a flame.

He stood feet away.

Erik inhaled a shaky breath as his burning gaze climbed back up Meg…so painfully slow. He was hungry—and his eyes shamelessly feasted, devouring every last inch of her. Erik's emerald eyes flickered with kindled desire, as they traveled back over the rise of her bottom…swooped down her delicate waist…up…up…slowly approaching the tempting fullness of her—

She began to stir! Meg twisted and turned within the sheets, exhaling an airy sigh, limbs tangled in the material.

Erik shocked himself and did not flee.

He glanced at peaceful Little Christine and wondered…

_"Sleep, child, sleep_

_Guardian angels god sends thee…"_

Meg's movements calmed. Erik's heart swelled three sizes, as Meg's rosebud lips parted with a soft smile. His singing had coaxed her into slumber. He swallowed, unsure of how he felt about this newly acquired knowledge.

His voice was a powerful force, indeed. It was intoxicating…soothing…calming…

And every bit seductive.

Erik changed his tune without thinking. His gentle lullaby tone hardened; it was hoarse, fiery, with the intention to seduce a maiden into his bed. Erik had almost forgotten him…his Don Juan, his beastly half. Erik was darkly seductive by his very design. He could have easily swooned Christine into his bed and arms on countless occasions. But that was something he had never wished for. He longed for her to come to his arms willingly, for love…not lust.

_"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge."_

Meg's body reacted to the voice. It had been haunting her dreams.

_"In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent…"_

Unconsciously, her small hand pulled from beneath her reclined head and elevated from the sheet…creeping over her stomach…riding her slender curves…

_"Silent…"_

Erik removed his mask, wiping the damp porcelain against his pantaloons. He returned the mask to his face with a low, tortured groan. Meg's hand had conveniently stopped on her breasts, and Erik found himself wondering if they were as soft as they appeared to be. Meg's body was a work of art, constructed to satisfy a man's lust for flesh. Erik, indeed, was a man…and he, indeed, lusted for Meg's flesh.

Meg had paused, seemingly waiting for her cue.

_"I have brought you that our passions may fuse and merge…"_

Meg's breaths shortened. They gradually quickened and heightened, soon strained and scarce. She reclaimed her role as prima ballerina, as her fingers danced across the generous weight of her breasts, wedging beneath the slightly parted material with a relieved and deep sigh. She massaged herself, all movements in perfect harmony with Erik's velvet voice. Watching Meg feed her own desires so freely, so shamelessly…was a sight he wouldn't soon forget.

Never in his life had he seen something so erotic.

_"In your mind, you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses…"_

"Erik…come…come to me…"

And Erik came to her. She was still sleeping…he knew. She was still touching herself…he saw. Her caresses grew more and more intimate…more daring…with each and every line Erik whispered. Erik's voice was liquid gold spilling throughout Meg's body; hearing him through the filter of a dream world made it all the more alluring.

_"Completely succumbed to me…"_

Erik moved nearer to the bed and its attractive offering, his steps composed and ghostlike.

He knelt beside Meg, mesmerized…seduced. Waves of desire crashed through his body with building tension. Could he? He wanted to…very much so…but no. Even he was more man than that. Erik felt wretched, like a primitive beast stalking an unsuspecting prey. Meg hummed, his name fluttering between her lips. She sighed and moaned all at once, fine eyebrows perched with longing. But wait…

Was she unsuspecting? Was she truly the prey? Who was hunting who? It was damnable…quite damnable. Only once had he felt like this.

And what ever he was doing to Meg…he was doing very well.

Meg's hair was tousled and her breathing harsh. She was possessed, lost within a heated session of love making. Erik's chest tightened, his eyes falling shut. Meg was reciting his name, louder now…like some holy, sacred prayer…beneath ragged and choked breaths…seemingly reaching that inevitable peak. Yes—she was there! And she was about to fall! But Erik caught her.

He wrapped his fingers around her ankle, enveloping them completely. Erik knew his touch was icy and rather discomforting. It could stifle even the hungriest of flames. She shuddered and pouted.

Her slumbering words resumed, slurred and jumbled; despite such wanton behavior, Meg's innocence had been preserved. She was at no fault of her own. Meg was intoxicated by a powerful, unseen force. In a twisted way, her virginity was at stake…yet, Meg's soul remained unblemished.

"Erik…I want to feel your voice upon me…I want you to touch me…trust me, Erik…give me yourself…Oh, Erik…"

Why had he denied her such a simple pleasure? Within his dreams, Erik had enjoyed and flourished beneath Meg's pleasurable company…far more than once. And, upon waking, the two, opposite realms (reality and dream) had collided; the shameful proof of his suppressed passion for the girl had invaded his bed. The Giry's bed.

No…dream or no dream…Erik would not take her innocence. Not without her knowing. Not like this. Not while fueled by the inspiration of lust.

Regardless, Erik echoed her calling, equally passionate, "Meg…Meg…Oh…"

"Please, Erik…touch me…"

He obeyed her breathy command. Hardly thinking, hardly breathing, Erik ran a hand through her luscious web of curls. They were damp and heavy…as he'd imagined they might have been only moments ago. His eyes studied her adorable face, burned by her beauty. He leaned closer…closer…closer…dangerously close…

_"Now you are here with me…"_

She arched into his voice with a desperate, pleading cry. The heat of her body raised and radiated, scorching Erik alive. His hand ghosted over the creamy flesh of her shoulders…over the flawless swell of her breasts. The flesh gracefully heaved to and from Erik's tremoring fingertips… rising and sinking with her long sighs and dreamy breaths. So easily, he could have touched her. He could feel her warmth and passion within their dreamy intimacy.

_"No second thoughts…_

_You've decided…"_

Erik pressed a feather-light kiss to her cheek—just barely. His lips moved across the warm, smooth skin—stopping inches from Meg's parted mouth. Meg breathed, "Erik…"

Erik reveled in the heat of his name.

_"Decided…"_

He had past the point of no return. Erik's darker half took over; he became the Phantom of the Opera.

His massive hands planted on each of Meg's flushed cheeks—her lush fan of lashes blinked open. Meg cried out, startled, completely ignorant of the intimacy they had been sharing.

"Erik! What are…oh, my! Just what do you suppose you are doi—"

Relieving the palpable sexual tension which had plagued them both far too long, Erik lunged forward…his mouth smothering the last of Meg's words. She spoke once more; Erik swallowed her protest.

Meg sank into his kiss. She whimpered into the tight chamber of Erik's throat. A beastly growl erupted deeply within his chest; Erik's arms instinctively snaked around Meg's back, bringing her into a possessive clutch. Erik felt the tender curves of her breasts push against the nightdress, begging for release. It was too much. Far, far too much! Erik moaned and eased his strangling hold on the girl.

She sighed melodramatically and giggled, eyes rolling back into her head. Through a breathy, hoarse whisper, "Erik, you _stupid male!_ Why ever did you wait so long to kiss me?"

Erik pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead; she could feel the beast grinning.

"Why, Erik? Why…now?" Who was this man?

"Ah, Marguerite…you had left me no choice."

This was the Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera…a genius and deceptively skilled lover. Meg smiled; this was her Erik, and in all his passionate glory!

"Oh, Meg …Meg Giry…the things…you do to your poor Erik…" His lips descended in a light and airy tease. Her eyelashes tickled Erik; he deftly kissed each of her hooded eyelids. Finally…he captured her lips in a chaste and heavenly kiss.

Meg strained her limp neck, lifting her head in a desperate attempt to deepen their kiss. It was very cruel! Erik nudged forward with his mouth, unhooking their lips, pressing Meg into the sheets. She fell away with a frown. Her tongue ran across the seam of her swollen lips, tasting Erik. Their body heat merged and mingled once more. Crystal beads of perspiration rained down their flesh, seething with passion and sensual longings. The heat of his body dripped onto Meg; all of Erik's intimate denial and longing for the girl took form in a raging thunder storm.

"You…you are positively wicked, Erik."

Granted, Erik had never touched a woman in such a way…but he seemed to act on pure instinct, his passionate nature taking full command. He performed his seduction like a seasoned lover; he could have fooled even the most experienced of ladies.

A stab of jealousy pierced Meg for a passing moment, as she found herself questioning Erik's 'innocence'.

But she grinned, quickly remembering that he was the Phantom of the Opera.

Meg groaned and elevated from the bed, propping onto her elbows, struggling, aching to reach Erik—he immediately enveloped her shoulders with those masterful hands, tugging her back into a reclined position. Scars (from the glass) had been engraved across both of Erik's palms. It offered Meg a unique tickling sensation.

The heat of his touch could melt ice. Ironically, she shivered beneath him, lost in Erik. He moaned at the passion within her eyes. It mirrored his own; it impaled his flesh. Erik adjusted his limp posture, attempting to mask his arousal.

Meg gasped, eyes buried within Erik's penetrating gaze…they crawled down the smooth porcelain mask…down, down the length of his thick neck…and—

"Erik! My, God! You are quite indecent!—"

"As are you, Marguerite."

Meg huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, defending her modesty in an adorable, maidenly gesture. "I shall die of shame."

The entire bed vibrated as Erik chuckled—such a rich, melodic sound it was! "You are a thing of beauty, mon cheri. No emperor received more fine a gift."

She turned away with a searing blush. "You, Meg, are fit for an empress. I apologize; my dreams have done you no justice."

He shifted his weight, visibly rattled. "I am eternally grateful." Meg nearly wept. His words had spoken far beyond the obvious. She stared forward, lost in deep thought.

"Look at me. You shan't be ashamed. You, my dear, are an angel in disguise."

Meg turned towards the poetic words, chancing a look at Erik's chiseled form. She had never seen him without a dress shirt. No—not within_ this light._

He was…beyond words. Meg remained silent.

He also turned away in suspenseful silence. Between mob's beatings, the abuse of Javert, and his lecherous suicidal attempt…Erik's body was severely scarred. Tears filled Meg's chocolate eyes as she looked upon the crimes of humanity.

Meg had come to know Erik very well, and could easily read into his thoughts.

"Oh, look at me, would you! You, Erik, are beautiful." Meg bit her cheek, enjoying Erik's youthful reaction to her words. "But no different than myself. You, my dear, are an angel in disguise."

Erik's forehead quizzically crinkled, as his nostrils flared like a caged bull…waiting for both revenge and release. He felt Meg's eyes on his face…on his chest…far below his chest…

"Remove it, won't you?"

His head snapped to her tiny voice, his spine stiffening beyond all repair.

"Meg! You…you are certain you wish…" Erik's hands propped onto either side of his hips, fingers coiling beneath his pantaloon's high waistline. He swallowed. It would be a divine relief; the restraint was painful, and he had fantasized about this…far more than he would dare admit to himself. Denied or not, he desired no other woman in the world than Meg Giry. She could give him something no one else could; not even Christine Daae.

This 'ultimate' release would free Erik not only physically but spirituality. He wished to share this experience within Meg's arms.

"You wish…for this?" His words were shaky, voice nearly cracking. The timbre was thick and husky. "You desire this…as I do?"

"Why, yes! I wish to see you! All of you! Not a wretched mask! Not a disguise…"

The syllable was spoken through tightly gritted teeth and clenched jaw. "Ah." Erik drew from his waist…beyond thankful that he was kneeling…and that Meg could not see.

"Take it off, Erik."

He tore away the mask with a groan. He felt beyond vulnerable, and Meg's inquisitive stare was doing nothing for his nerves. Though, Meg was the one person who he could show his face to and still retain an ounce of self-dignity. In the presence of Christine, he'd always felt more monster than human; beside Meg, Erik almost felt…manly.

A long silence fell upon them; Erik battled the temptation to replace his porcelain mask. Meg stuttered dumbly before she spoke. She looked away, a charming blush playing across the darling apples of her cheeks. "Take them both off…if you wish."

Alas! Meg had seen! What glorious, sweet torture!

Erik knew he should say no. Reason demanded that he say no…she was bewitched! And, as an adult…as a man…was it not his duty to correct her poor, delusional thoughts? It was sinful and wrong…but she was so beautiful…and it was so right.

"I GIVE YOU MY WORD, Meg: I would not dare—"

"I trust you. Free your soul. No more masks."

Meg blushed at the distinct sound of rustling cloth. Erik sighed, completely free…completely vulnerable. Meg betrayed herself and took a gander; Erik pressed himself against the bed with a low, nervous chuckle. He made sure everything was left to her imagination.

His decadent voice lowered several octaves. "In time, my dear, _in time."_

Meg trembled at his words. She leaned into Erik's beckoning heat, needing them to be one. He grinded against the mattress, somehow still kneeling beside the bed…

"Come…come to me, Erik…come and let me kiss you. All of you."

Trembling, shuddering, and completely unsure of himself, Erik brought his face to her pursed lips. Meg cradled his chin…pulling him to her mouth.

She kissed all of Erik's scars; old and new, external and internal. Both angels cried from the beauty of this moment. Their foreheads pressed together, tears mingling, hearts consummating. "I am so sorry, my Erik."

His entire body trembled within her arms. "Please…won't you turn for me?"

Erik stiffened his inflamed posture the slightest bit. Meg gave his bodily scars the same attention as she did his face; she left not_ o__ne_ imperfection neglected. Parted lips traced the morbid indentations and trenches…fingertips stroked the elevated whip lashes with fearless affection.

Pressing kisses to each of her fingers, Erik spoke through a choked, strangled sob. "Oh, Meg…thank you…thank you…I am unworthy of you." She shook her pretty face side to side, a beautiful smile stretching her lips.

Erik just as soon cursed himself…as he discovered his groin was _equally_ thankful, displaying equal appreciation and equal intrigue. Erik fell to the crutch of his knees…moving several inches from the mattress; needless to say, Erik had…grown considerably. Using the bed as a shield was no longer an option.

Meg saw his hopeless struggle; their passion quickly rekindled, flaming, hotter than ever before…sharing a deepened intimacy.

Erik found himself fighting the infamous and ageless battle between temptation and morality. Meg seemed to be challenging his self-restraint and testing his sincerity. They both were so consumed with each other and the intimate nearness which they had been secretly craving so long; it would have been ridiculously easy to ravish Meg…throw himself on top of her…devour her whole, every last inch…succumb to their mutual desires…and finally make her his own. This was insufferable! Christine Daae was not nearly as curious. Erik's voice was husky and unmistakably desirous.

"You, little Giry, are quite the Pandora. I fear your persistence shall be the death of me."

She could not stomach an ounce more of Erik! Meg glanced away…looking anywhere but him…

"A rather pleasant death…but death, nonetheless…"

He was taunting her; he enjoyed probing her virgin soul. This was no secret. Her and Erik shared a sly, knowing glance.

A fierce, raw passion glazed Erik's eyes; Meg grew suddenly frightened, regretful, and entirely lewd. She felt naked beneath that unwavering, emerald stare. And later…later she would surely curse her weakness and unseemly behavior.

"Erik…I apologize…I spoke too quickly! Far too quickly—I am not so sure…" Erik clutched her face, twisting her head up and back, forcing her to meet his soulful eyes. "Maman would gladly strangle the both of us!" Meg tried to jerk her chin from his iron hold. She was trapped! "And besides…Little Christine would certainly hear everything. Contrary to belief, babies are much more observant than one may think, you know! In fact…" And she rambled on.

"Shhhh. Relax, my dear. You talk far more than your maman…impossibly more." Erik smiled as his hands sensually melted from her rosy cheeks. Meg exhaled, calmed by his kind words and gentle touches. "Not to worry. I have no intention of taking your innocence. Close your eyes, Meg. Free your soul."

Meg stared forward; Erik waved a hand over her eyes in a suave gesture—like magic, they fell shut. Both of Erik's hands returned to cup and cradle Meg's angelic face. Erik's thumb-pads ran over the swollen flesh of her lips, marveling their glory. He groaned at their heavenly softness, remembering their taste. She made a strangled noise, eyelids fluttering, battling the desire to observe Erik's seductive ministrations.

Meg elevated herself the slightest bit, mouth nearly pressed into Erik's ear. Erik's eyes, like Meg's, also fell shut. He felt her hand wrap the shaft of his neck, like the embrace of his beloved Punjab Lasso, pulling him against her infernal heat. She began to speak and Erik tried to rule mind over body…needing to take control of his denied manhood…before it could take control of him and Meg.

He longed to throw her against the sheets, like some primitive and hungry beast, dominating her with every ounce of his heated passion. Erik studied Meg in her entirety; she was wearing far too much clothing, he decided. He cursed her sheer nightdress, willing it to be gone…

"I heard you sing…months ago. Erik, I wanted you then…I want you now. I want all of you, Erik_. _Every inch of you…" Her following words nearly killed poor Erik. "Erik, let me give you pleasure…let me pleasure you, as only the touch of a woman can…I can feel it in your touch. You will make a great lover." Meg was shocked by her own audacity. The Phantom of the Opera had awakened her. A tiny voice echoed the back of her mind: _'Have you no maiden shame, Giry? Lust is a sin…and sinners reap their destruction tenfold…' _The tiny voice went unheard…muffled by the intensity of Erik's voice.

He growled and swooned all at once.

"Ah. Meg." Erik's chest grumbled in an exasperated, choked groan; he pushed her away far too roughly, pressing her back into the sheets. His body shined with a film of tingling perspiration.

"Erik, I—"

"NO_._" The world was cold, curt, and defensive. Meg's tiny form raked in violent shudders, victim to the power of his darkly alluring voice. Erik speared his fingers through a damp hairline, moaning through a song of torturous pleasure. Never had she heard something so beautiful and sensuous. "You must keep your eyes closed. And no speaking! Dear, God, no speaking! Just listen…listen…lose yourself…lose yourself within the rhythm of my voice."

He hummed, fingers pressing into her lips, massaging the tender, moist flesh. He leaned in, and the hot sting of Erik's breath made her shudder within his iron hold. Erik restrained her. His intense masculinity and velvet vocals devoured her whole.

Defeated, Meg's pink tongue swept over the lingering thumbs. He removed them from her mouth, knowing a moment longer would, indeed, be his death. Such a sweet death it would have been!

He wanted her. He wanted her with a pain he hadn't known to exist. He had wanted Christine…but not like this. Meg had sacrificed so much. Erik frowned. Too much.

Erik ached to experience the affection which Meg had often spoken of. But this…this was about Meg Giry. Erik wanted to share and give himself…and in the most intimate of ways.

He wanted Meg to have an affair with his music.

"Your eyes, Meg…promise to keep your eyes closed."

She nodded lifelessly, as Erik pressed her into his dewy chest. For a silent moment, Meg and Erik's hearts thumped against each other in a perfect unity. Lust had been replaced with a far more tempting sensation.

Erik felt himself silently weep; he shrugged his shoulders, wiping away the cascading tears. A raw emotion had consumed him. With Meg cradled to his chest…everything had become very clear for Erik.

"Meg…EGO sum occursus diligo vobis." _(Latin translation: Meg…I am falling in love with you.)_

Meg shivered as the foreign words caressed her. They had been whispered so delicately, so poetically…with such a profound and indescribable longing. Their beauty was a painful thing for her to endure; Meg couldn't help but wonder their meaning.

"Erik? What—"

"Relax…say nothing…_feel everything_…"

"Your voice is an instrument of pleasure," Meg hoarsely murmured between fluttering lips.

"And I am the musician, my dear…" Pressing an erect finger to her lips, "silence…let me play my art…" His long finger curved into a hook, melting from her mouth, riding down the curve of her chin…ghosting across her perfectly sculpted collar bone.

Growling low, "Oh…you are art…"

Erik's hands slid down her pale cheeks in a tedious and painfully slow motion, drawing invisible circles with his fingertips upon every inch of Meg. They worshiped and caressed her with promising and gentle touches. His body reacted wickedly, victim to the crisp air and Meg's smoothness…betraying his will power. Erik moaned in defeat and cursed himself, slipping on his pantaloons. He would not try his patience. Erik did not trust himself.

But Meg trusted him…and he was not about to risk losing such a beautiful, fragile thing.

Meg sighed in relief, fully aware he was no longer au naturale.

She trusted Erik very much. She did not trust herself.

"La capitulation à vos désirs les plus profonds…ne lutte pas contre l'obscurité…" _(French translation: Surrender to your deepest desires…do not fight the darkness…)_

Erik's heated fingertips crawled down the slight curve of her neck…moving lower, lower…continuing their daring descent. His hands stilled, stopping inches from Meg's rising and sinking breasts. The heat of his hands hovered _just above _her womanly curves. So close—yet so far away! She arched up, needing to feel his hands upon her. She saw nothing…and it made her remaining senses soar indefinitely.

"Touch me, Erik…touch me…"

Erik removed his hands and collected her within his strong arms. She whimpered, face buried within his rock hard chest, inhaling Erik.

"Deje a su alma tomarle donde usted mucho tiempo para ser…"_ (Spanish translation: Let your soul take you where you long to be…)_

Meg swooned in his arms, as Erik coaxed her with the exotic romance languages of the world. His voice was husky and erotic, slick as ice—and Meg immediately wished that she was more cultured.

"Solo allora, si può appartenere a me…" _(Italian translation: Only then, can you belong to me…)_

Each of his musical fingers coiled around her wrists with rough affection. Erik marveled at her delicacy. She was such a gentle, fragile creature…the complete opposite of himself.

Erik pressed both of _her hands to her_ breasts…his long fingers slipping away. Meg's eyes blinked open. She stared up at him dumbly. Her voice was lost in her parched and thumping throat. "Erik…I…I do not understand…Please, I am frightened." Once again, Erik closed her eyes with a clever wave of his hand.

_"Past the point of no return. No backward glances…"_

Erik brought his lips near to the shell of her ear, burning her with the passion and fire of his words. She withered and squirmed uncontrollably, unable to stomach such seduction. Erik steadied her fight with a single hand and rich, sly chuckle.

_"Our games of make believe are at an end."_

Meg understood.

Erik's voice dropped several octaves, resonating deeply and massaging her entire form.

"Now…I shall sing for you…for you, alone…give you a taste of my music, a bit of Heaven's glory…I shall give you pleasure, beyond your imagination."

The distant melody of crashing waves and cooing gulls were an instrumental accompaniment to Erik's singing.

The entire bed vibrated, assaulted by Erik's beastly vocals. Meg surrendered and succumbed to the Phantom—spiraling into a state of musical euphoria. A cool breeze took Meg by surprise; Erik parted her nightdresses' material with one, cool fingertip…and she gasped at the unseen sensation.

He grazed and tickled the beauty of her chest, not bothering to hide his sounds of satisfaction. Her flesh was tight and covered in goosebumps. "Oh, Erik. Please. Please…release me…I…cannot bear…such tortures…a moment…longer…"

Erik brought her hand to his lips, moistening her palm and every finger with a long kiss.

He wedged and buried her damp fingers beneath the slinky fabric of her nightdress.

_"Past all thought of if or when. No use resisting."_

Meg nodded. She would not resist. Not any longer. Like the merciless frost of winter time and unquenchable heat of summer, their games had come and gone with the changing seasons. They could no longer hide from each other. No more masks.

_"Abandon thought and let the __dream __descend." _

Her trembling hands resumed their intimate, slumbering caresses."Meg…Meg Giry…" His voice was husky, quivering with an unbridled and dangerous passion. She felt as though his voice were hands…her caresses were his caresses. Meg found herself struggling for air; her breaths vastly shortened at the thought of Erik upon her.

"Erik…Erik…"

"Yes. Yes, Meg, yes…lose yourself…for me."

Erik tentatively peeled away one of her hands, suggestively laying it across the lowest region of her diaphragm. It lingered near to her femininity. Erik waved his palm over Meg's shut eyelids.

Her eyes blinked open; she read Erik's fiery demand. She swallowed, silently questioning his intent.

Meg's reclining hand slid lower…lower…lower…

"Oh, Meg…" Erik swallowed hard, head spinning and heart thumping. He tensed, knowing there would be no going back.

"Let my voice make love to you."

_a/n: Go take a cold shower. But first review. Hehe!_


	15. Behind Shut Eyes

_a/n: Thank you for all the wonderful comments! I'm so happy you guys are enjoying the 'steamier' Erik and Meg fluff. Don't we all? Most importantly…ENJOY!_

_ALSO: I rewrote chapter 7 (The Beast Within Him). Since this phic is now M rated, it's MUCH…err, naughtier. _

* * *

This picks up from when Erik commands Meg to "Let his voice make love to her." Take note that the first part is narrated through Meg's very intoxicated/aroused/slightly deranged point of view (Erik's voice tends to have that affect)…

_Chapter XV: Behind Shut Eyes_

_The smooth voice beckons and seduces my body to sing…to sing for him. So consuming and passionate is that lullaby voice…I find myself obeying without thought, exhaling a shallow sigh which pours from the depths of a burning womb. My eyes are fixed on the billowing curtains which dance in the wind's heated breath…and I am strangely envious. How I miss my art—how I miss dancing! _

_I can hear the crashing waves roaring like thunder__…_splintering against the ragged cliffs…distant and brimming with haunting melody. They serve as musical accompaniment to the divine glory of Erik's singing. But accompaniment is quite unnecessary. Erik is music. 

_"Let my voice make love to you…" The Voice betrays itself, trembling, shaking…expressing every humanly fear and insecurity. It shudders in beautiful, self-doubting vibrato—silently cursing itself…yet determined to shower me with musical brilliance. Erik cannot make love to me as a man…he denies his own humanity. But he can love me as a musical incarnation. _

_As I lay at the mercy of the Voice__—wanton, spread out and __vulnerable—I_ find myself unusually confident and strangely curious. The Voice has doubts. I reassure it with a small sigh of submission—readying myself for whatever consequence awaits us both.

_Body and mind seem to separate, neither obeying nor acknowledging the other. Inspired by the rhythmic flow of music, I reclaim my role as prima ballerina. My hands quiver as they dance down and over the curve of my full breasts…further still…sweeping past my heaving stomach…skimming down the creamy and hypersensitive flesh of my thigh. My toes curl in delight…as I stand beneath the light of self-discovery._

_"Yes. Yes__…l_ose yourself in the rhythm of my voice,_" Erik croons with regal authority. _

_I caress myself, answering my master's decadent command…behaving with the obedience of a mortal who submits before his God. But my hands seem to slowly dissolve away—replaced with a much more powerful, much more fulfilling and pleasurable force. Erik's wickedly angelic singing devours both my body and soul in a haze of unbridled longings and whispered desires. I am frightened. My consciousness will not let me rest! A tiny voice hisses a warning: 'enjoy the taste of decadent freedom now…for you shall be bound and caged by your shame later.'_

_I hear them both…both the tiny voice and Erik's throbbing singing…but I listen only to one._

_After all…you can only have one master. _

_A rich tenor touches me with delicate and romantic caresses. Then a sultry baritone harmonizes, assaulting me with its burning touches…these caresses are dark and daring, demanding and unrelenting. Hands seem to be everywhere…one hand possessively coils around the shaft of my throat…two hands knead my rising and sinking breasts through the thin barrier of my nightgown…four hands bind me, clasping both my ankles and wrists, restraining any movement or sign of my protestation. I am tied down like an unholy sacrifice…waiting for my master._

_I wait. Lost within an erotic, musical limbo, I wait. _

_And suddenly…suddenly everything seems to fall away. I plummet into the musical nirvana. Music bursts before my eyes…music swells my heart and consumes any trace of rational thought. Music, music, music!_

_Just before my mind and body surrender to a lustrous dream…I see Erik towering before me…above me. Emerald gems clash against the surrounding abyss, penetrating my heart and soul in one breathtaking thrust. I battle the invisible hands—the terrible, inescapable hands__—_aching to kiss my Erik. But no…I cannot stir a limb. I am helpless. So I stare up at him…and my heart aches, sharing in his tragedy. Beautiful Erik is unmasked, far more exposed…far more vulnerable than myself. My eyes inspect the unnatural perimeter which divides his face, separating angel from demon…monster from man.

_But I see only Erik…my beautiful, haunted Erik…_

_Scars from birth distort the mangled flesh…scars from life are engraved along his throat…warping the strong expanse of his back and chest. My heart swells three sizes…then three more. It pounds against my flesh…threatening to explode from the cage of my bosom. He has never been shown humanly kindness, compassion, or mercy…not even from himself. Oh, poor, unhappy Erik!_

_For months I have struggled to assure Erik he is not alone…that he can be loved—by both another and himself. But he has consistently recoiled from my affection and touch! He loathes himself…fears himself…thus, imagining a woman's love is an impossibility for Erik…such a thing lays far beyond his reach and comprehension, far beyond his limited understanding of the world…far beyond the neglected and abused depths of his soul. But he had humbled himself once before__…all of Erik's remaining humanity had shattered when his love was shunned and rejected. _

_My eyes grow heavy with emotion. I look upon the crimes and sins of humanity. Anger fills me. I want no part of the human race! How I long to kiss way each and every scar! How I long to show him life does not have to be lived alone and in shadow! He had loved Christine Daae…and he loves her still…but she had shunned his inner darkness…and it was no fault of her own…bless her heart! Christine hadn't possessed the strength to fully love a man like Erik. His passion had frightened her away. His darkness had snuffed all hope for light._

_ I find myself pitying the orphaned soprano…she had loved her Angel, she had ached to reach out and redeem him…yet she was imprisoned within her own haunted past._

_But I am not Christine Daae._

_In spite of myself, I am drawn to Erik…all of Erik. In spite of every inkling fear, every rational doubt, and every hesitation, I am drawn to Erik…like a moth is drawn to the promising heat of a flame. Christine, too, was drawn to him…only to have her wings scorched and seared._

_His darkness calls to me…and I shamelessly answer. I am seduced. I cannot be helped. I don't wish to be saved. Likewise, in spite of himself, I know Erik is attracted and drawn to my inner light and goodness. _

_The realization dawns on me. Perhaps, I should no longer fight his darkness…exorcising Erik's inner demons in vain. Perhaps, together, we can find that ideal balance of light and dark…_

"_Erik," I rasp, "please…come with me…" _

_My eyes squeeze shut. My breathing shortens__…__shortens…closer now__…painfully close to falling from paradise__…_

_________"Oh, Erik__…Erik__…_" My voice is no more than a choked whisper_…a sacred plea within the temple of this new darkness._

_Behind shut eyes __I imagine Erik ravishing me_. His masculinity devours me whole. In return, my arms possessively wrap his damp chest_…my nails_ claw and rake at the terrain of his back. I grind against him, needing to be one with Erik_______…I arch up, up, up____…emitting a drawn-out moan____…_my nipples stand perfectly erect, saluting our shared desired for each other. They prick and pierce through Erik's flesh like devilish little _______daggers…stabbing him like the horns of Satan__________…_and I am shameless of my longings!

_________I love Erik! And I take pleasure in loving him!_

_I cry out to him. I shatter within the comfort of his embrace, tears running down my rosy cheeks. Behind shut eyes, we both experience a pleasure so exquisite…a pleasure which—in a single, strangled breath—borders on pure ecstasy and excruciating pain. _

_Our mingled cries of freedom and intimate release harmonize in a flawless symphony. I prove musical! I! The Angel of Music sweeps me into the cocoon of his wings. Within that indescribable moment, our two souls unite and connect, soaring into the bounties of Apollo's Lair. I sigh, happy and perfectly content. Erik holds me securely against him, never intending to let go, cooing sweet nothings into my ear. He whispers his affection. He needs me__________…I need him. _I feel complete. I blissfully descend into darkness…his darkness. 

_I lay before my seducer…dark, silent and complete. And within the arms of Erik's voice…I feel loved._

* * *

Meg was slumbering.

From head to toe, her complexion was rosy and attractively flushed from the throes of her heated passion. The bed sheets were tangled deliciously around her limbs, light with a sheen of sweat. Yes, it was quite a sight to behold; Meg's hair was beyond unruly and tousled…her eyes lined with dark circles, proving her exhaustion…nightgown ragged and plastered to glistening flesh…not to mention, the bed was a complete and utter mess. Erik smirked to himself, wildly satisfied; he rather enjoyed the thought of the innkeeper tending to such a thing.

Despite every charming imperfection…Erik swore Meg Giry had never looked more breathtaking than in that moment.

Erik was a man of his word. As promised, the sweet glory of his voice had made love to Meg. He had sung with every ounce of his unrequited and enslaved passion, embracing Meg with the sheer power of his voice. The music had surged throughout her tiny and defeated form_…_pulsating through each and every hair strand, each and every finger and every toe…demanding her complete submission. Granting Meg a taste of true pleasure—the pleasure of being lost within a euphoric sanctuary of music—was a sacrifice Erik was quite happy to make. And such a thing was nothing less than a remarkable sacrifice on his part. Meg Giry had triumphed; Erik's mind and body had suffered greatly.

Could he ever forget the maiden blush which had possessed the dancer's beautiful, writhed body? Would her intimate, musical cries of fulfillment forever echo the depths of his mind? And would the image of a blonde goddess_—_a blonde goddess shamelessly reaching her private crescendo, drowning within the liquid of his voice_—_ever let him rest in peace?

Meg was lost to a realm of lustrous sleep for several hours; each and every moment Erik had silently observed her. He was entranced_…_mesmerized. The nightgown hugged her curves to perfection—leaving little to Erik's wild imagination. But his fascination was inspired by a force which was much greater…much stronger and much more daunting___…_than mindless lust.

Erik had passed the point of no return.

Seated a proper distance, he listened to the dreamy intakes of air which swelled her lungs and fled her lips in lovely puffs of air. She sighed deeply, an unconscious smile stretching the swollen flesh of her lips. She murmured nonsense in her sleep. Meg's sleep-talking was steadily becoming one of his most prized pastimes.

Erik had sung Christine Daae to sleep countless nights, seducing and luring her into dreams of beauty. And, after her debut, Erik had watched her sleep with a trembling, breaking heart…aching to reach out for her touch, yet far too frightened and shameful to dare corrupt her innocence.

Meg flipped onto her tummy and began to stir within the sheets. Erik instantly jumped to his feet with a low grunt and made haste for the crib…pitifully disguising the fact he'd secretly been watching over her.

Meg's lush hood of lashes fluttered open; she stretched her elegant limbs like a lazy feline, smothering an enormous bear yawn.

Her eyes widened as she devoured the elegant shadow who was cradling a baby. Meg's heart soared from her very chest. Together, both Erik and Little Christine were tucked beneath a blanket of darkness, appearing as no more than two, beautiful silhouettes.

Meg tossed onto her side and propped her body weight onto an elbow. She playfully cleared her throat.

"How long have you been watching me…Monsieur Phantom?"

Erik placed the gurgling youngster into the crib, stopping only to brush out her few brunette wisps. A gentle humming seeped from the glory of Erik's lips; on cue, Little Christine yawned, slipped a thumb between her grin, relaxed her pudgy limbs, and dozed into the oblivious sanctuary of a dream world. A dream world which was fashioned together by Erik.

Intense silence followed after.

She was glowing. A swarm of curls crowned Meg's face like a slanted halo. Sunlight seethed through the curtain, illuminating Meg with the appeal of a diva's spotlight. Large, chestnut eyes clashed against her ivory complexion. She dropped her chin with a smoldering crimson blush—bashful from Erik's attention. Never had he looked at her with such…intensity and attentiveness. Vibrant locks of hair cascaded over Meg's eyes in a waterfall…curtaining the windows to her soul. Erik battled the urge to sweep them away. Her eyes were so lovely…so enlightening. Their radiating warmth melted icicles which had too long clung to his soul.

Erik slowly came forward with his characteristic grace, emerging from the shadowy concealment. A brief instance of darkness passed over; beyond the inn, the sun curtsied against a paisley sky, shifting positions. A ray of light pierced the window after a moment—filtered slightly by the wavering, gauze curtain. Erik stood in the heart of the cramped room—looking every bit like a dark and sinister angel—encircled and enhanced by the brilliant ring of illumination.

Meg sat up, biting her bottom lip with an adorable pout. A crème dress shirt hugged the sculpted muscles of Erik's chest…snug, dark trousers wrapped the glory of his thick thighs…and a blaring white mask shielded his face.

"I am still most indecent." Meg adjusted her dropping neckline and fastened the silky sash about her waist. Heat rose to Erik's face and blood descended Southward; the sash emphasized the rise of her hips with an unmistakable perfection. She was so fragile_…_Erik wondered if he could close his hands around the entire circumference of her waist.

Meg's cinnamon gaze suggestively raked down the length of his stiff body. "I should hardly think such a thing is fair…you standing before me so modest!"

After Meg had surrendered to her slumber…Erik had felt the compelling need to get away from her. Far, far, _far_ away. Never had he witnessed something more breathtaking…more erotic or arousing. He could not endure such sweet torment. Being in the same room with his blonde siren was not an option.

And so Erik had rummaged through the mountain of luggage in a frivolous purist…vainly distracting both his mind and body from the girl next door.

Fate proved to be very cruel and very sadistic. Erik had unclasped the first suitcase, lifting it open with a tortured and beastly groan. Erik muttered a slew of French profanity as Meg's unmentionables glared up at him. Corsets…chemises…pantalettes…each and every one seemed to triumph in mocking his painful desire.

Erik fished out a couple of the evil garments with a sudden urgency; his fingertips fondled the lacy material in an unconscious quest, stroking Meg's all-consuming femininity. How would Meg look in this corset…_only_ in this corset? And how would she look without it? One forbidden thought led to another forbidden thought.

Erik cursed himself and slammed the damned suitcase shut with impressive force. He just as soon resumed his curses—discovering he had broken the rusted clasps in his frustration. He clumsily gathered a modest day dress for Meg, collected a handful of his ruffled clothes, replaced his mask, breathed a silent prayer to the God he never believed in…and returned to his awaiting ladies_…_

Meg tried to ignore the stinging blush which was biting at her cheeks. And her blush only deepened when Erik returned her innocence tenfold, a light shade of crimson painting the column of his neck.

She prepared herself for that intriguing, magical voice. She could listen to that voice for an eternity. But Erik stood in regal silence and simply grinned. His full lips lifted into a dashing and crooked smile. Meg's eyes glittered, lips parting with breathless fascination. She sighed—not meaning to speak her feelings aloud: "Your smile, Erik…it takes my breath away."

"Is that so, mon cheri?" Erik shifted closer, painfully composed, moving with the haunting grace of a ghost. "Then, perhaps, I shall do so more often…" He was inches from Meg, towering over her, hovering like a majestic bird of prey. She shivered beneath his stunning and bottomless stare, distracted by the thick, sultry accent of Erik's voice. It was perfection. It rolled like thunder. The exotic melody wrapped her soul in an unyielding clutch.

"I must say…the thought of you vulnerable and unconscious sounds most appealing."

Erik was shocked by his words. _Really?_ _Flirting, Erik? _

But his voice was so hauntingly smooth, so chilling and so convincing; Meg cringed, praying Erik was only teasing. Then she cringed once more_…_discovering she was not entirely opposed to such a thing…being vulnerable to Erik.

Meg's lovely face transformed into a mess of confused thoughts and feelings.

Erik's visible brow propped in question. He was bewildered by her uncharacteristic quietness. Something was…different. What madness! This was not the Meg Giry of two hours ago.

She shrank from his presence when Erik tentatively stepped towards her. Meg firmly clutched the sheet to her chest, back ranged up against the headboard. The harsh material rubbed against her overexposed breasts; the headboard's aged wood creaked and moaned as she grinded against it.

Erik's eyes softened. He could not stomach her in this state.

"Meg? I…I was only jesting. You know I would never—"

"I know, Erik. Really…it is not you."

Erik descended to the crutch of one knee. He knelt at her bedside, positioned in an awkward, mock-proposal stance. His voice lowered several octaves, slick as ice. The arch of his back stiffened; painful emotions dimmed his gaze and crossed over his mysterious features by turns.

"You are afraid. You fear me."

His voice was a broken whisper.

"Yes." Meg gasped, widened her eyes in horror, and shook her head—attempting to sort out an onslaught of tangled emotion. "No—I mean no! I am afraid, yes…but I do not fear you."

Meg glanced down; she observed as her tiny hands twisted and neurotically wrung the bed sheet. The risqué event of only two hours ago flooded her mind in a frenzied cyclone. How unseemly she had behaved! Pure sensation had reined over her mind and body. She knew she had not been hypnotized nor_ entirely_ helpless—Erik respected her far too much to ever allow for such a thing. And Erik…Erik had resisted her sensual advances and desperate pleas! The Phantom of the Opera had preserved his decency!

Meg might have denied and shunned the electric power of Erik's voice. But no! She had _chosen_ to surrender…she had willfully surrendered her mind, body and soul.

Varying emotions and strange urges suddenly assaulted her. She burned to clutch onto Erik's hips and pull him on top of her, demanding his love and affection—demanding to feel his voice upon her…deeply within her…she yearned for her mother's gentle embrace and calming words…she pained for Christine's friendship…she longed to take refuge within the walls of a confessional, declaring every sinful and forbidden desire which was clouding her mind. And Meg's turbulent emotions only worsened her anxieties; they were equally indecisive, equally determined. Rekindled desire…the compelling need to confess her love for Erik…followed by a tinge of maiden shame…ending with a rather passionate self-loathing and guilt.

A tear slipped down the delicate curve of her cheek, vanishing into the crevice of her parted and trembling lips. She sniffled and squeezed her eyes shut, freeing the bed sheet from a lethal, quivering grasp. Curls of gold bounced about, as her weeping face fell into her open palms. Her words were nearly incoherent—muffled by persistent sniffles and the creamy flesh of her little hands.

"Forgive me, Lord! Have pity of my soul! Oh, forgive me, Erik…" She crossed herself in a rushed and clumsy motion…muttering something sacred between her lips.

Meg shook her head, scolding her unquenchable desires and stubborn thoughts. Her elegant legs pulled up against her chest, head vanishing below a wall of chattering, upright knees. Erik was paralyzed—completely unsure of how he was supposed to comfort the creature. Meg clutched onto herself, rocking back and forth like a madwoman. Back and forth…to and fro…

Erik's immediate instinct was to flee. But he could not budge nor stir a limb.

"Oh! What have I done! What would Maman say? And I'm sure Little Christine is not entirely blinded to such…things! May I be forgiven for my weakness! How I shame myself!"

The cause of her tears struck Erik like a whip. He betrayed himself and grinned—shamelessly enjoying her sweet, radiating innocence.

"Meg, you have done nothing to be ashamed of."

Remaining hidden behind a fortress of lovely legs, Meg shook her head quite violently…then burst into a precious heap of tears. Her tiny figure raked in choked cries, as she hid within the protective shell of her arms…behaving like a threatened hermit. Poor, poor Meg.

"But I do! I do, Erik, I do! You d-don't understand! It…it wasn't…the f-first t-time…" Hiccoughing, tripping over a series of strange, strangled sobs, "…t-the first time I…I…imagined…y-you…n-n-or y-y-your voice…you and I-I…a-and Little Christine w-was not e-even s-six feet away!"

Iron hands wrapped each of her wrists, enveloping them completely, securing her with rough affection. Erik unfolded her arms and peeled them away, held his breath, and moved dangerously near to her—cautious and spooked half to death.

He had forgotten just how young and brittle Meg Giry was.

Erik knew she had never parted from her mother nor Opera Populaire for more than one night. Erik knew she had been forced into a strange new world.

She was scared and very much alone.

Erik inwardly grinned, reflecting on his thoughts; perhaps, they were not complete opposites…

The infernal heat of Erik's body pressed against Meg in an invisible embrace.

"Meg? Meg? Meg…" Her bones rattled and rolled beneath Erik's fingertips as he gently shook her. Her head limply lolled from side to side…up and down…down and up. She resembled a beautiful, porcelain doll. And, for a moment, Erik was convinced she had fainted away. Meg groaned and regained her shattered composure. God in heaven! She was far more than a little embarrassed. "Meg? Meg!"

She refused to look at him. Meg's adorably blotched and tear-stained face returned to the shelter of her knees. Quite suddenly, Erik yearned to watch her body succumb to her alluring, mystifying dances_…_

To watch Meg Giry dance, was to look upon a flesh and blood incarnation of desirous emotion.

"You have claimed to know me. You have defended me when I have accused myself a monster." She nodded into her legs. The timbre of his voice sharpened, equipped with that familiar, dangerous edge.

His statement was intended as rhetorical—yet his words were mercilessly challenging her sincerity. "Tell me: do you still stand by your words, Marguerite Giry?"

She shyly peered up at Erik beneath a thick fan of lashes. The faintest trace of a smile claimed her lips. "I do. With all my heart."

Erik's long, musical fingers melted away. He adjusted the askew mask and bellowed a beastly sigh which shook the entire bed.

"I have been alone all my life…nearly four decades." Meg frowned as her lips parted in imminent speech; Erik pressed a single finger to her mouth, commanding silence. "No. I am not asking for your pity." The finger curved into a hook and slid away from her soft, rosebud flesh.

"I…I had been my one comfort." Meg felt her blood boil and rise to her cheeks—acutely aware of Erik's sexual innuendo. "I was disgusted. I thought myself no better than some primitive animal." She shivered as a haunting and sardonic chuckle surrounded her. He cruelly laughed, mocking his weakness. "And I was likely just that…a primitive, monstrous beast." Erik's eyes fell over Meg. He could not speak. For a moment, she had stolen his voice. And without the audacity of his voice…the Phantom was left defenseless and defeated.

He swallowed his parched throat—summoning his courage before he dared continue.

"What I am trying to say is…do not fear your desires_. _Do not run from passion. Nor attempt to completely tame it…for doing such a thing will only destroy you from the inside out." Erik tensed and leaned into Meg's pleasant warmth, whispering his velvet words. They tickled her neck in a light hiss. "I can feel it…and I know you feel it too. There is fire in your soul. A glorious fire burns deep within you. No. Do not tame your passion, Little Giry…" The sting of his breath impaled her skin, transient and teasing. "Namely a shared passion…"

Her flesh burned…she felt his stare. Erik's breathing fell irregular as his eyes drew to Meg's throat. The artistically sculpted collar-bone…he ached to worship it. After all_…_Erik had always been wildly appreciative of fine art.

Meg's neck twisted up and back, her eyes jerking up to Erik. Broken out in a plague of gooseflesh, her skin seemed to stretch over her bones and tighten to impossible limits; surely, she would split straight down the seam!

An indescribable emotion lined the depths of Erik's emerald stare. Her skin crawled. It was a mysterious emotion…an emotion which she could not quite name. It was rougher than love…and much softer than lust.

"Such as feeling pain…passion serves to remind you…you are very much alive." Erik moved away. His thoughts mercilessly trailed. He escaped the penetration of Meg's unblinking eyes, averting his sunken face. She squinted—as the starch white mask blared in the light—blinded by the unnatural illumination. "I should know."

Perfectly silent, Meg scooted closer to Erik with a newly acquired strength. She reclined her cheek over the steady beat of his chest. Meg exhaled a long, serene breath; her limbs relaxed against Erik, fears gradually melting away. _Oh, Erik. I love you_. _I love you painfully much. _

A mane of curls cushioned the arch of Erik's chin. He lost himself within the aura of her delicate essence, inhaling a strained breath.

Quite strangely…Erik found this to be the most intimate moment of his life. His heartbeat vastly quickened. His chest deflated and inflated with heavy breaths. Erik felt…almost content. He felt almost…happy. _Love…is this…love? Have I fallen in love once more? And is such a thing even possible? Can I love again? Oh, Meg__…_

Erik hardened and shuddered against Meg. She bit her lip and shook her pretty face, curbs bobbing about—tickling Erik with their incredible softness. The pads of Meg's fingertips teased at his neckline, carefully caressing the fine material of Erik's dress shirt…massaging his heart with deft, soothing circles…relieving his unspoken fears.

Erik pressed a kiss to her curls.

He breathed deeply, deftly grazing her exposed cheek with the back of his hand. His opposite hand reverently ran through her silky locks. Her skin felt like satin against his rough and calloused flesh. _The hands of a musician. A true artist_…Meg mused. Her curls held the unique scent of honey and springtime…its texture a lush velvet. So soft, so delicate. Meg's appearance reflected the unblemished beauty of her soul.

For months, Meg had been strong and unyielding…brave and wildly spirited. Only hours ago had she allowed herself to fall completely vulnerable and defenseless. In countless ways, Little Giry held more bravery than the mighty Phantom of the Opera. And yet…beneath the shadow of raw and unbridled passion…she cowered submissively before him.

Her youth had been unmasked.

An inspiring (and vaguely familiar) thrill shot through Erik's intrigued mind and body.

He could sweep Meg beneath his blackened wings. He could allow her a taste of his darkness.

He could share and impart his burning, unquenchable passion.

Indeed…early stirrings of Meg's fire were aching to be ignited. There was no doubt of that. Erik could feel the heat.

Her fearless passion was a precious, hidden treasure…a wonder which Erik was suddenly eager to uncover and claim as his own.

And unlike Christine Daae…Erik knew Meg would not flee from his darkness.


	16. Chilling Discovery

_a/n: I am SO SORRY for taking a lifetime to update! Between my full load of classes, novel and three screenplays…I've been super busy. I'm very excited for this chapter and eager to hear some feedback! Let me know your thoughts. I cherish them. Each and every review is inspirational. :) _

* * *

Quick story update: Erik and Meg have fled from Paris (and the authorities) with Little Christine. Temporarily, until they find a proper home, they're staying at a small inn. Erik's voice "made love" to Meg…but, other than that, they haven't shared much physical intimacy (aside from one kiss). Also, they've yet to say those magical words…

_Chapter XVI: Chilling Discovery_

The home was picturesque, stolen straight from the pages of only the most heartfelt and tender romances. To Meg's surprise, it was humble and quite small—though perfectly elegant in its simplistic beauty—perched on top of an incline which overlooked the glory of the beach. Indeed, the bedchamber's window offered an immaculate glimpse into paradise. The very heart of La Havre lay beyond the shuddering sill. The delicate perfume of the ocean seeped through the window's aged wood. Its brilliant blue water shimmered beneath the perfect paisley sky, stretching on for an eternity. Each morning, luminous shafts of orange and red illuminated the limitless sky, the horizon halfway hidden behind a blanket of swirling clouds. Day or night, dusk or dawn, the view was always a breathtaking sight to behold. In La Havre, the world was no more than an artistic canvas…and God always painted a masterpiece.

Meg's thoughts were a constant pendulum.

If she was not careful, her head would become filled with romantic notions and fantastic ideas. She could easily fall head over heels in love. Living within the heart of the ocean…it would be easy to lose herself _completely._

And yet, within the depths of her soul, Meg knew it was too late. Far, far too late.

_I love Erik._

After that rather sinful night and terribly shameful morning, she had struggled to regain her shattered composure. She fought to redeem her sullied integrity. Countless years ago, she had lost her dear papa. After the debut of Don Juan Triumphant, she had lost her home. She had lost Christine Daae, her dear friend and adoptive sister. She had lost ballet, her beloved art. Meg was quite alone…and well over a hundred miles from Paris.

But there was no use denying her feelings. She had passed the point of denial…she had passed the point of no return.

Her pity for the broken man _had_ transformed into a fiery, all-consuming lust…her lust _had _soon evolved into a deep, immovable compassion…and compassion _had _become love.

_Pure, beautiful, unblemished love. _Nothing more, nothing less.

Meg inwardly sighed, frowning upon her youth. She was a mere seventeen years; what could she possibly know about love?

Alas—there was one thing she knew for certain: Erik could never fully love her…not after Christine Daae…

* * *

She was sweet torture. Impossibly sweet, maddening torture. He was falling for the damn girl, quite violently…head over heels. Each time he saw her lovely face…each time he crossed the threshold between their two rooms…each time he bumped into her "on accident"…he was falling a little faster. Every emotional barricade, every logical defense, was crumbling to mere rubble. No, he could not bring himself to stay away from her…not entirely, not for more than a day. And so, Erik often approached Meg while she slept.

An unstoppable, rather arrogant, and masculine pride surged through him as he crouched before the bedside, gazing down at Meg Giry. In that moment, he was perfectly content watching over her. Erik felt needed…even loved…for himself. He existed as her dark guardian. And as she lay within the tender cocoon of her dreams…Erik often sang to her. With the flawless audacity of his voice, he would rock both of his angels into the throes of peaceful slumber, whispering gentle lullabies and sweet poetry. Watching Meg look so very beautiful, relaxing in her sedated state, was a difficult thing for him to endure.

In spite of himself, each and every time he saw that insufferable Meg Giry…he fell in love a little bit more. He had loved Christine with an unearthly passion—and always would, well beyond his dying breath—but this was different. His adoration for Meg could not be compared with anything else…it could not be put into coherent words…Erik could barely make sense of such a phenomenon.

It was a truth which could no longer be ignored: _Meg Giry had rescued his soul. _She had saved him, in spite of his self hatred, when he did not wish to be saved. During his darkest hour, when he had no one left…_nothing left_…Meg had always been there. Even we he'd forced her away, often brutally, she remained at his side. Meg had kissed his scars, both old and new, external and internal. Before his very eyes, she had morphed into a stunning young lady; she held desires, a passionate fire, which equaled his own.

And now…Erik knew that he could never survive without her. Somehow, someway, Meg Giry had slowly broken down each of his barriers…she'd grown to be an integral part of him.

He could not think. He could hardly draw breath. Erik was paralyzed with what could only be described as an onslaught of raw emotion.

There was much to be done…so much to be planned. And they hadn't even left the God forsaken inn.

Yes, the time had come; Erik, Meg and Little Christine needed to move on…and quickly. After all, it was only a matter of days before the Phantom of the Opera's hiding spot was unmasked.

Ironically, the inn keeper had gradually become a friend rather than foe. Day after day, ol' Gerard (Sorry! Couldn't resist!) observed the tortured masked man—the brooding, intimidating man who was clearly struck with genius—and slowly grew quite fond of the beast. He was not daft; Gerard knew he was harboring the Opera House Madman. Despite his dire need for money, despite his shameful debt, he forced himself to turn his cheek—ignoring the generous reward which was being offered.

One morning, the paper had read as thus:

'_OPERA HOUSE MADMAN WANTED_

_Reward of 20,000 Francs'_

* * *

As it happened, Erik had distracted himself with the mission of finding a suitable home. A home which he, Meg and sweet Little Christine would share…God help him. Living alone with Meg (and Christine, of course)—living in a charming flat which peered straight into the ocean—was positively frightening and intriguing…and all in one breath.

An elderly couple—known as the late Ellen and Sebastian Lefèvre—had inhabited the flat for over fifty, glorious years. Sebastian was known to be a remarkable musician during the greater part of his life. After his beloved wife had passed on, he was left at the mercy of his broken heart; Sebastian swiftly allowed Death to take him. Poor Ellen had suffered numerous miscarriages; the Lefèvres had come and gone without knowing the joys of parenthood—a sorrow which had constantly plagued their lives. Indeed, their home had been neglected…denied a family to shelter.

The flat had transformed into a sort of "ghost-home" after their deaths. Every instrument and composition was left untouched. For years, it existed in a strange limbo…waiting for its tragic couple to return. Waiting to be filled with the laughter of children…

The home was a legendary landmark within La Havre. Erik had no trouble finding it… (Not to mention, he'd recognized Sebastian's name almost instantly.) With a nostalgic half-smile smile, La Havre had passed the flat into Erik's possession.

God bless the human race and its shallowness; there was _nothing_ which a handsome sum of francs could not buy.

One evening, just as Meg and the Opera House Madman were taking their departure, Gerard pulled Erik aside. Beneath a hushed breath and a mischievous grin, he offered a seasoned slice of wisdom: "Whatever you do, Monsieur Phantom…don'tcha dare let this one slip through your grasp."

* * *

Meg, Little Christine and Erik had finally arrived home. The carriage ride had been as silent as death. It was the calm before the storm. And, when it came to the Angel of Music, silence was a bad omen. Indeed, such silence had spoken far more than any words…

_No. Erik does not love me! How could I have been so very foolish? How did I lose my heart? Maman had warned me…_

Her final conversation with Antoinette invaded her thoughts:

_"Ma chérie…you mustn't be fooled."_

_"How do you mean, Maman?"_

_"Erik—he is a genius, no doubt. Though, merely accomplished in the things of life…not their significances, ma petit."_

_This only further confused her._

_"Fooled, Maman?"_

_"Do not believe his care, Erik's compassion, to be from affection. For in the end…doing so shall mean despair for you both. You understand, Meg? You must always guard your heart__…i_f nothing else."

Within moments of their arrival, Meg rocked Little Christine to sleep, gathered the pretty material of her skirts, swatted away her tears, and fled from her new "home." She needed to breathe. Reality was closing in on her spirit.

And so, with a burning heart…Meg escaped to the sanctuary of the ocean…

* * *

Erik's breath hitched in his throat at the immaculate vision. She was seated on a large boulder, her porcelain complexion bathed in white, airy silks. Gazing out into the sea, Meg was the perfect picture of pure tranquility. Curls of brilliant gold danced about, carried by the wind's breath, swirling and twirling around her flawless features like a sort of halo. She was breathtaking. And he was quite powerless to resist Little Giry.

Erik stepped nearer to the perched angel, careful not to be heard nor seen, moving with the regal grace of a ghost. His crème dress shirt fluttered in the breeze, half the clasps undone, sparse chest hair peeking through; the cotton material was swallowed up by the high cummerbund waist of his snug trousers. Only when he was feet away, did he notice her cheeks were streaked with remnants of tears. _What had he done?_ Erik shook his downcast face, passionately hating himself.

There was no choice in the matter. Erik would have to kiss away her tears.

Without warning…a familiar warmth played upon Meg's back, engulfing both her mind and body in a lucid haze. Erik was seated behind her, intimately close; her bottom was cradled by his lap. Meg gasped—half in surprise, half in divine relief—wondering if this was another dream from which she'd soon awake.

Dream or no dream…Meg abandoned herself to Erik. She silently leaned against the comfort of his sculpted chest, exhaled a long sigh, and molded their two bodies as one. She was lost…lost within his powerful and all-consuming essence…lost to her own passion. Her curls cushioned the arch of his chin…_a perfect fit, _her heart confirmed in vain…

Neither Erik nor Meg dared speak. He simply wrapped his arms about her delicate waist, gathered her against his chest, and held her near to him…never intending to let go. The beat of his heart was strong and unmistakable; it caressed the elegant length of Meg's back with an intimate and _promising embrace…_

And, within that fragile moment, Meg knew her premonition had been proven wrong. Erik had the_ capacity_ to love again…if only he would open his mind, heart and soul.

Overwhelmed by her revelation, unable to find her voice, silent tears fell from her eyes; she bit her bottom lip as they coated her flushed cheeks. Meg trembled, praying for an inner strength.

"Oh, Erik…I—"

"Shhh…no speaking, ma chérie…no speaking…" Whispered against her velvet curls, "Just…feel…"

Meg's arms were slightly bent, cocked at ankles, hands pushing against the cold, damp stone—propping up her lithe body weight. She looked every bit like a bathing beauty, Erik marveled…a beautiful mermaid lounging before the sea. The glittering, limitless sea…

Erik's fingertips brushed over her swan neck with a feathery touch; he swept an abundance of curls from her shoulder, revealing a slate of creamy skin. The pleasant heat of his mouth descended upon the newly exposed flesh. A delicious shiver shot down her spine and back up again. She moaned softly, victim to his painfully sweet ministrations; Erik took the erotic sound as an invitation to deepen his kiss. The chilly porcelain of his mask grinded her skin in a taunt. Meg's eyes fluttered shut; he was tonguing the nape of her neck,_ just barely…_

Oh, such a wicked thing tickled something awful! Meg battled the urge to giggle.

Rough hands—the hands of a seasoned artist—skimmed up and down the smooth flesh of her bent arms…crawled up and over the slender curve of her hip…brushing just past the lush rise of her heaving breasts…finally spearing through a web of curls. Fingers fully spread, he sifted the fine satin of her hair, inhaling all that was Meg Giry. She swallowed and tensed, caged within a prison built from sinewy muscle and brawn. His touch was a maddening tease. Both Meg and Erik were out of breath and quivering with a suspenseful anticipation.

In spite of herself, in spite of saving her modesty, tiny moans seeped from her lips. Meg lifted each of her arms sky high. She blindly reached behind herself—searching for the thick shaft of Erik's neck. Her fingertips grazed his wide shoulders…one and then the other…finally breaking through the silky wisps of raven hair. A sensual, rich sound of unbridled pleasure reverberated deep within his chest. His vocals massaged her back like a lover's caress, swallowing her whole. She gripped onto his neck with the force of a Punjab lasso, lost to pure, raw sensation, savoring the vibrations which resonated from his masterly vocal chords. Erik's callused, scarred hands slid back down…down and over her slim shoulders…over the chaste gauze of her day dress…over each of her hips…

Erik peered down, eying the glory of her body beneath a lush fan of lashes, lost within her touch…lost entirely within Meg. Her bodice was cinched and fastened tight; the swell of her breasts strained against the material, fighting for decadent freedom. Almost mockingly, beads of perspiration rolled down those tempting crevices, vanishing into the valley of the Promised Land.

Erik inwardly cursed himself, far too aware that the physical source of his affection was very, _very_ evident…quite painfully evident…

To his sheer pleasure, she did not recoil in horror or fear; no_…_instead, she embraced his passion tenfold. Meg provocatively danced against him_…_against his burning, stone-hard lap_…_

Her bottom was cradled between the junction of his thighs. God in Heaven! The innocent, pure-hearted, dangerously seductive ballerina was testing his sanity…and taking delight in doing so. It was far more than the smitten _man_ could handle. All would be over before it even began. With a rough affection, Erik latched onto Meg's swerving waist and held her still.

"Dancing, little nymph," Erik groaned, victim to a stunning and delicious agony. Much like a reverent prayer, he chanted her name, "Meg…_Meg_…" His voice was a husky baritone, oozing with dark perfection, dipped within a vat of tortured longings. A palpable desperation laced each and every syllable, "Please…let me touch you…I need to feel you…to know you are truly here with me…please…_release me_…"

"Only if you sing to me," Meg seemed to half moan, withering against the solid wall of flesh which towered behind her. "Fill me with the beauty of your voice…sing…sing for me, my Erik…your voice does wonders to me."

She felt his crooked, Cheshire grin on the back of her neck.

Meg descended into pure ecstasy. The ocean waves crashed in harmony with his voice, serving as accompaniment to the wicked, phantasmal touch…

_"I count no more my wasted tears, they left no echo of their fall…_

_I mourn no more my lonesome years, this blessed hour atones for all…"_

Strangely empowered by his music, Erik's fingers fell over Meg's luscious, beckoning cleavage…

_"Not oft the robin comes to build its nest upon the leafless bough__…_

_By autumn robbed, by winter chilled…"_

Erik held his breath, prayed to the God who had never believed in him, and carefully worked the satin lace. The satin lace which held Meg's charming day dress together…the satin lace which would open those forbidden doors to Heaven…

_"Feast on me, in you I am caught…_

_Come bathe with me in passion's fire…"_

The material loosened as he gave a shameless, little tug…

_"We dance the dance of eternal love, wrapped in freely flowing desires…_

_Caged, reaching out for you…"_

Another tug…then another…the sweeping neckline puckered forward in sinful invitation…

_"So close, knowing you want this too…" _

Quite suddenly_…s_omething overcame Erik. A storm of stinging tears pinched at the corners of his eyes. That magnificent, bottomless, emerald gaze drowned in shameful emotion_…_

He suppressed a choked sob.

When he finally spoke, he sounded so vulnerable…so very frightened; the mighty Phantom of the Opera had been degraded to no more than a lost, forgotten child. Erik leaned forward, inhaled a shaky breath, silently wept into her hair, and recited the tragic plea: _"Just love me__…_"

And then…

Nature's gentler element disrupted the moment.

Meg cried out as a monstrous wave stormed from the sea. It roared like thunder and shattered over the rock…the same rock on which she and Erik were seated…dampening the perfect moment…the most romantic moment of both of their lives…utterly drenching Erik and Meg from head to toe…

_a/n: - evil little grin - Liked it? Loathed it to death?_


End file.
